


Come Again

by ChampagneSly



Series: Blue Tulip Verse [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, M/M, Romance, Sequel, UST, porn stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:24:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 70,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel to Fools Rush In & Secret Garden.</p><p>Takes places 1.5 years after Secret Garden and immediately following the conclusion of Fools Rush In.</p><p>Chapters alternate between Eirik and Francis' POV (with one chapter each for Jens and Jos).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Francis

November, 2012   
  
Watching his body arch, skin stretching gloriously over the light tone of his muscles in high definition and on a very large screen in the company of several hundred desirous young men and a handful of adventuresome women was every bit as wonderfully intoxicating and gratifying as always. Francis had been, perhaps, a bit surprised by Jos’ unsolicited suggestion that the Blue Tulip re-release his last and greatest film,  _Hundred Year’s Whore_ , after a little less than two years, but he had not been difficult to convince when Jos blandly informed him that he was certain there was money to be made in re-mastering Francis into full HD glory.    
  
And, naturally, Jos had said with such lovely derision, the Blue Tulip would throw a suitable celebration in his dubious honor.    
  
Really, how was he supposed to resist the opportunity to see his slightly younger self at the pinnacle of his artistic expression? He was quite pleased with his decision to give Jos his way as he observed the crowd on the dance floor, leaning over the railing of the VIP area to wave and wink at another enthusiastic admirer. From this vantage, he could see it all; the constantly shifting and shimmy bodies, the familiar heads of his favorite Tulips out mingling and marketing, and even Jos, scowling and gesturing impatiently at the bartender, as handsome and unbending as ever.   
  
It was only when his wandering gaze fell upon two of his three most beloved Nordics that Francis focused his attentions fully, brow furrowing as he watched both Jens and the normally stoic Berwald consume liquor at an impressive rate. He wondered at the vague displeasure lurking in Jens’ normally cheerful expression, stifling a sigh when he realized that there could only be one source of such consternation for the irrepressible Dane.   
  
Though he had always known that Eirik would be special and he would always have secret affection for the role he had unwittingly played in Francis' return to good graces, Francis was beginning to believe that this lovely period of peace and prosperity at the Tulip was in danger of falling into chaos thanks to Eirik. He suspected that if he did not attempt to divert Jens’ attentions or somehow persuade Eirik to give into the obscene amount of yearning and filthy gazes being directed his way from his Denmark, there could be a disruption of their garden's tranquility. Francis filed the thought away for another time, letting small plans start to foment beneath the gentle buzz of alcohol in his mind, distracted from his Nordic observations by the very impressive noise he was making up on screen.   
  
Ah, the enthusiasms of his youth, Francis thought fondly, running a hand through his hair and thinking wistfully of the days when all  that was expected of him was sexual and sensual perfection.    
  
Somehow, it seemed almost surreal to consider all that had transpired from the afternoon he spent in the finest studio for rent in Paris, exhausting every cent of Jos’ seed money, so determined to make a film that would make their _name_ , to this night in a club in Amsterdam that celebrated not only him, but his most prized and precious accomplishment, The Blue Tulip.   
  
But what a whirlwind it had been, Francis mused, recalling days and nights that felt as though he was drunk on his own dreams: dreams of beautiful men with hidden souls who didn’t yet know they wanted to tell their secrets for Francis’ camera, dreams of selling something beyond sex, and soft, dangerous dreams of another beautiful man.   
  
With a kiss and a wave to his adoring fans, Francis melted back into the shadows to settle on the awful fake suede of the VIP booth, smiling faintly as he thought how very close he had come to losing all those lovely dreams. It was not something he reflected on often, inclined to leave his memories of failure and disgrace firmly where they belonged (somewhere in Arthur Kirkland’s delightfully vindictive little mind), but there was something about coming again to the beginning that prompted such reflections.   
  
It had taken months of subtle apology and not so subtle reassertion of his power to regain the full trust of his Tulips. There had been countless days of feeling unnaturally anxious, forced  to stretch his skills of persuasion almost to the point of breaking to wash away the bitter taste of Ivan that lingered in their mouths.   
  
But now, much to his relief and genuine happiness, sunshine had returned to his Studio (if not to the Netherlands, perpetually dreary place that it was in winter), and Francis once more had the reins of the Blue Tulip firmly between his hands, soft and dangerous dreams stashed away, lest they obscure his vision and lead him astray.   
  
He was, after all, just another beautiful man with a hidden heart.   
  
He turned his eyes to the screen once more, smirking approvingly as he observed a version of himself, likely more beautiful and with one or two fewer secrets, bending in such a way that most could not. He idly wondered if he could still manage such a thing, now that he spent not enough hours on a yoga mat and far too many writing scripts, answering emails, and trying to keep abreast of the not insubstantial amount of gossip and intrigue that flourished in his well-tended garden.   
  
Francis was pleasantly startled from questions of his potentially flagging sexual prowess by a familiar (and once so very familiar) hand placing a drink in front of him without a word or a smile.   
  
Francis arched an eyebrow in surprise, grinning slyly at his daydream intruder, answering loudly enough to be heard over the thump and grind of the music, “Fetching me drinks? Whatever have I done to merit such unusual consideration?”   
  
Jos, still so lovely and implacable, only smirked coolly and helped himself to an expanse of couch next to Francis, sitting near but not so near that any part of their bodies touched.   
  
Francis raised his glass in a toast, thinking wryly how true it was that time healed  _almost_  all wounds. He knew that for all that they were once more business partners entirely at ease and kept within each other’s professional confidences, their bodies never once betrayed the secrets they once held between them.   
  
They spoke of numbers, plotted and planned, made caustic remarks about competitors, harassed and harangued their employees, but never once had they talked of what lingered in the spaces they so deliberately kept between them, of the hurt and disappointment, silently choosing to leave all unanswered questions to mellow and fade in the fullness of time.   
  
As long as they did not touch, most days Francis was able to recall with perfect, startling clarity why he no longer presumed to call Jos  _“my darling.”_   
  
Jos gazed at him with faint curiosity until Francis realized he was probably being dull, strange company, frowning and ruminating in the midst of a party that was echoing with his own joie de vivre, the DJ having cleverly spliced in his best pretty moans and sighs with the current song assaulting his ears.   
  
At once the crowd erupted into cheers, Jos shrugging and gesturing mockingly towards the balcony railing when Francis looked at him questioningly. Francis smiled prettily in the face of Jos’ condescension, arching gracefully from his seat to find that his last film had come to its rather multi-climactic conclusion. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jos standing beside him, staring up at the same frozen image of Francis, delighted in his debauchery, gaze distant and lips turned up in the faintest hint of a smile.   
  
“What is it? Are you overcome by such a masterful performance?” Francis prodded, waggling his eyebrows lewdly, warmth fluttering in his chest as he caught the answering flicker of amusement in Jos’ stony gaze, hoarding this so recently reborn intimacy between them.   
  
For, Francis found, though time had healed their hurts and dulled his pain, the fading of bitterness left only the craving for sweetness. The lingering spark of attraction and affection, so long hidden beneath apology and selective avoidance was flaring again. With each conversation that lasted into the later hours of the evening, so reminiscent of the days when so many business meetings ended in kisses, Francis could feel the waves of his desire threatening to wash away his better judgment and all the reasons that had kept them both safe through these days of separation.   
  
“I am overcome by the memory of the money it made me,” Jos responded flatly, before turning around to rest his back on the railing, blocking out the crowd as he peered at Francis, wary amusement still lingering in the corners of his eyes.   
  
Francis blew kisses of thanks and adoration at the still applauding crowd, laughing as he shouted to Jos, “Oh, yes, you’ve certainly kept your promise.”   
  
Francis stilled when Jos stiffened for the briefest of moments and turned his face turned from Francis’ prying gaze, asking, “How so?”   
  
Francis smiled softly, shoving his thoughtless, desirous hands in his pockets as he answered, “You’ve made me both famous and rich.”   
  
“True,” Jos said with a smile, voice rich with dark satisfaction, “Our mutual investment has proved sound.”   
  
Deeply amused, arousal twining around his heart despite his mind’s protestations, Francis shifted closer, drawn as ever by Jos’ cutting, delicious pride, words spilling from his lips before he could think better of them, “And yet I am still waiting for my bouquet of tulips.”   
  
He could feel the huff of Jos’ scoffing laughter across his cheek, his senses whispering over the increasingly muted warning shouts of his mind telling him to back away, a remembered sense of pleasure and power staining his cheeks pink when Jos looked at him, so intently Francis thought that he if moved to close the distance, to touch his lips to Jos’ stern, unyielding mouth, he would not be denied.   
  
And the temptation was so ripe and Francis wanted to dive once more into the coolness of Jos’ regard, knowing that he had been standing on the edge of the precipice between rationale and desire for more weeks and possibly months than he cared to remember. Maybe it had even been more than a year, if he attempted not to lie to himself, perhaps he had been treading this worn path of control and denial since the afternoon of the first  _Denmark Does Norway_  shoot when he could not stop his feet from carrying him, full of pride and excitement, to Jos’ door, wanting to share the triumph with the one person who still understood such things so marvelously.   
  
It had been the beginning of a pattern he seemed unable to break, no matter how many times he reminded his foolishly insistent feelings that indulging in such a manner only led to the moment when he remembered where such impulses had led and he once again walked away, quieting his passion and his selfish affections.   
  
Never once had Jos asked him to stay. And now, more than ever, there was so much to lose.   
  
Francis stilled, closed his eyes and exhaled softly, quelling his reckless desires before turning back to the crowd and opening his eyes once more and knowing that Jos was still watching him, pointed at Jens, slumped against Berwald at the bar.   
  
“I believe we may have a situation on our hands,” Francis said wryly, keeping his gaze firmly on Jens and Berwald.   
  
Jos was silent for a long moment before he shifted and observed the scene below, shaking his head as he surprised Francis into nearly dropping his drink, “I presume you are referring to the less than professional feelings the idiot Dane has for the Norwegian?”   
  
“I wasn’t aware you paid attention to such things!” Francis said, voice rich with mirth, delighted that even after two years Jos could still manage to throw him off-guard.   
  
Jos rolled his eyes, disdainful in his reply, “You are not the only one with observational skills.”   
  
Francis gave him a considering look, wondering as ever if there were layers asking to be uncovered in such a statement, before quieting the nagging voice urging him to push, to pry, to play.   
  
“Also,” Jos continued, breaking Francis’ silence, “The numbers for the Denmark-Norway series have been consistently disappointing as of late.”   
  
“Well, in that case, you must agree that we should intervene,” Francis said smoothly, forcing his gaze back to the dance floor.   
  
“What do you have in mind?” Jos asked, curiosity bleeding into his cold voice.   
  
Francis smiled, knowing that there was no one he would rather have by his side as he schemed, letting Jos’ undaunted interest in the machinations of his mind soothe his deliberately disappointed desire. If he could give himself permission to go no further, he would take this much and make such a show that Jos could not look away.   
  
“Well,” Francis said, rising to the challenge, wanting very much to play a perfect game this time, smiling wickedly at Jos as he said confidently, “I might I have something in mind. Leave it to me. I am certain that I can get our two most profitable little Tulips to blossom once more....”


	2. Francis

As a rule, Francis liked to reserve drinking wine in the middle of the day for times of celebration, but on occasions such as this, when he had the unpleasant and unfamiliar sensation of the rug being swept from beneath his feet, he relied upon the comfort of a clandestine glass of France’s finest.   
  
“To Jens,” He muttered ruefully, pouring out another measure, “And to Eirik.”   
  
He sipped deeply, closing his eyes and letting the sharp, too young red slide down his throat, trying to understand why it was that Jens’ abrupt and shocking announcement of his departure from the Blue Tulip was affecting him so deeply. Oh, certainly, he was fond of the Dane and it was a shame to see such talent go before it was entirely tapped and exploited, but there was within him a deeper, unrelenting ache that went beyond Jos’ irritation and Eirik’s cold confusion.   
  
He considered, swirling the wine in the glass, acknowledging the soft spot he had long carried for Denmark and Norway, for all that they unknowingly done for him, giving him the success he needed to bring him back into the fold. It had been their spark, burning so unexpected and bright, that had reignited his reputation and returned him to his place of worth and merit, and, most importantly, to “his” chair in Jos’ office as they had toasted the renewal of the Tulip's good fortune.   
  
And though it saddened him to see the ending of something so promising and profitable, he wondered what kind of man it made him that it was the complete failure of his maneuvers and manipulations that burned more deeply. These past weeks had been such a rush, trapped once more in a net of intrigue, spinning a web between his fingers and Jos’, so certain that he could trap his wayward actors, and with a little effort and misdirection, release them once more to make each other happy and the Studio money.   
  
It had been like slipping into a cold and turbulent sea, somehow unpleasantly familiar, when Jens had strolled into Jos’ office, resolute and brimming with the confidence that had always been his greatest lure, smiled and declared that he was, “leaving the Blue Tulip and there was no way they could talk him into staying because somethings were worth giving it all up.”   
  
In that moment Francis realized that once more he had miscalculated so grossly. He had not even needed to hear the answer Jens gave to Jos’ scoffing question of,  _“Such as?”_  to know that once again he had failed to factor in something as basic and powerful as love into his equation.   
  
Desire, seduction, the allure of the senses and the veiling of the mind. Oh, yes, these he knew so well, perhaps too well, Francis mused as he finished his glass. He sighed and poured a little more to ease the disappointment of failing to understand that on Eirik’s side, too, it had been a different kind of love that had derailed all his best intentions.   
  
Once more, he had come to the right conclusion too many minutes too late, when decisions had been made that could not be undone, and he felt as though he was again at a crossroads.   
  
He wondered how Jens could be so sure, could give up so much on just the chance that Eirik might return his affections. For all that he believed Eirik was not as indifferent as he seemed, that there was a hidden well of warmth for Jens beneath all that ever shifting ice, it still seemed such a risk to take.   
  
It rankled a bit, somewhere beneath the many layers of his pride, that Jens, foolish, brash, darling Jens had been able to make the choice Francis had not on a cool spring morning in Berlin.   
  
The opening of his door broke his concentration on the lovely rust color of his wine and the dangerous allure of the romantic grand gesture. He tried to hide his wince when Jos stepped over the threshold and eyed his half-empty bottle of wine with dry bemusement and, to his surprise, a strangely undisguised hint of concern.   
  
Oh, but now he knew that his reaction to Jens’ little declaration had been terribly obvious, if even his dearest Jos was yielding enough to come to his office and look at him with that gaze of wary curiosity and surprise.   
  
“Drink?” Francis offered quietly, waving his colleague inside, shrugging when Jos scowled and shook his head.   
  
“This is why you left the meeting?” Jos asked with cool disapproval, reaching for his own favored vice, daring Francis to protest as he brought a cigarette to his lips.   
  
With a sigh, Francis stood to open the window, disinclined to have the smell of Jos and his smokes lingering for hours in his office when he had a significant amount of drinking and brooding to do.   
  
“Ah, you seemed to have the matter well in hand,” Francis murmured, “I confess I am surprised you are not more displeased by this unexpected development.”   
  
He continued staring out the window, keeping his back to the potentiality of Jos’ disappointment, listening with disbelief when Jos answered calmly:   
  
“While it is not ideal and I deplore the early loss of a valuable asset, I’ve secured enough concessions and contractual obligations from Jens to mitigate his departure. It was evident to me there was no other recourse but to accept his decision. I see no need to react so personally.”   
  
Francis turned, knowing that little stab was for him, a pointed invitation to share the worries he had clearly failed entirely to disguise from eyes that still knew him so well. Smiling ruefully, hands spread before him, “I am sorry. I was so certain that my interference would cause one of them to give way. Of all the outcomes I envisioned from my proposed Sweden-Norway shoot and the drama that followed, this was not one I had anticipated.”   
  
Jos stared at him through the trail of smoke in front of his face, face giving little away as he countered coldly, “Obviously not.”   
  
Agitated, Francis paced the length of his office attempting to explain his way through his tangled thoughts, “Obviously. I had thought Eirik would give into his desires or that Jens would grow bored of his pursuit. Or that they would both cave and take what they could get with the minimal amount of risk.”   
  
He stopped in front of Jos, absently plucking the cigarette from his fingers, ignoring Jos’ huff of amusement as he took a long drag, letting the smoke burn and curl in his lungs as he readied his admission of failure.   
  
“I could not imagine that Jens would walk away. Give it all up for the chance at something so distant and uncertain. To risk so much--money, career, and even reputation--with so few assurances that it will not all end in disappointment and dissolution.”   
  
He passed the cigarette back to Jos, watching the way his gaze tracked the slow movement of Francis’ fingers. For once, he openly welcomed the man's veiled scrutiny as he tried to ascertain what secret thoughts were passing through the shadowed keep of Jos' mind while Francis confessed all his sins.   
  
“His reasons for doing so are foolish, I agree,” Jos said at length, exhaling into the space between them, “Unfortunately, I find not all that motivates is based in reason.”   
  
Francis stared, lips curling up at the corners as he laughed softly,murmuring lowly, “What a strangely romantic notion.”   
  
Jos smiled a little, a tiny, almost pained twist of the lips as he answered disparagingly, “Much to my disappointment, that does not make it any less true.”   
  
“You are quite right,” Francis replied darkly, trapped by the intensity of Jos’ stare, hands wishing to trace the tense lines of his jaw and soft curve of his throat to try and understand with touch what mystery was in Jos’ eyes.   
  
“Yes, you are right,” Francis sighed quietly, “I did not understand his determination. I did not want to see the depth of his feelings. I underestimated him.”   
  
Jos leaned forward, arm reaching towards him and for a brief, thrilling moment Francis thought they might touch, that Jos might take his hand, only to shift aside when he realized Jos was extinguishing his cigarette in the little ash tray he kept on his desk, signaling their meeting was coming to a close.   
  
“A bad habit of yours,” Jos murmured coolly as he stood, gazing at him sharply, the accusation and the brief flare of heat in his expression stealing the words from Francis’ throat and startling him into silence.   
  
In the stillness of the seconds before Jos turned from him, Francis looked at the face he knew so well and wondered desperately if this was close as either them had ever come to wishing it had been different between them.   
  
But Jos’ gaze was shuttered and distant once more, his eyes staring somewhere over Francis’ shoulder, revealing as little as ever as to his true intentions, leaving Francis with a handful of words and his own disquieted feelings.   
  
“I’ll leave you to your work,” Jos said at length, voice thick with derision as he pointed at the abandoned wine.   
  
“Ah, yes,” Francis answered absently, watching with half his attention as Jos started to leave his office, offering vague assurances, “Don’t worry, I shall try to think of other ways we might leverage Jens’ departure.”   
  
“I’m certain you will,” Jos said in parting, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, abandoning Francis to the racing of his mind, trying in vain to keep apace with the rushing of his heart.   
  
In spite of the open window, the room still smelled of smoke and Francis felt as though Jos had stripped him more bare than if they had been naked and twined together. It was frightening and exhilarating to be so momentarily without defense or artifice, to have no other answer to give than the truth.   
  
For it was true, Francis thought as he took his wine once more in hand and looked out the window at the streets of Amsterdam. He was entirely guilty of consistent underestimation.   
  
He had underestimated Ivan’s twisted mind. He had underestimated the secret depths of Jos’ commitment.   
  
And worst of all, he knew now as he considered how easily and happily another man, a younger man with less to lose had made all the choices that had frightened him into surrender...   
  
He had underestimated his own heart.   
  
Francis swallowed the sadness that accompanied such a realization, years too late to have prevented the bitter disappointment of the Russian debacle, letting the  _should haves_  and  _could have beens_  wash away beneath of a sea of wine.   
  
All this time he had spent convincing himself that he had made the right choice, that he would not have done it differently, proven for the lie that it was by the undeniable envy he felt of Jens and his determined love.   
  
He had spent too many countless days living with his unspoken, unacknowledged regret. This was now and as he had promised Eirik only hours before, now was so different. Envy, regret and denial were for yesterday because today Jens was leaving, Eirik was staying, and he was still Francis Bonnefoy, who was rumored to have nine lives and an uncanny ability to adapt to any changing situation (even changes of the heart) and exploit them to the fullest.   
  
And, Francis believed, Jos had left the door of possibility between them open just enough to let a sliver of light shine through to light Francis' way should he finally decide to step over the dividing line and lay siege to the Jos’ lovely secrets of once more.   
  
Francis smiled around the anxious fluttering in his chest, tremulous and new, something not unlike desire and yet deeper and far more dangerous. Already, he could feel the long denied feelings rousing from dark, half-wishes and barely formed plans. He was ready, finally ready, to see this through to the end, come what may.   
  
It was time to begin anew.   
  
~~~~~   
  
By the time he arrived at Antonio’s front door, entirely unannounced, Francis was nearly ebullient and not only because of the wine he had finished back at the office in celebration of his new found resolve.   
  
Antonio seemed slightly less overjoyed to have Francis careening into his living room without an invitation, but Francis could not be deterred, determined to share the wonder of his discovery and his intentions with his closest friends.   
  
“I am sorry to barge in like this, my dear,” Francis lied without remorse as he wound his arm around Antonio’s waist, “But I have just been speaking with Jos...”   
  
He paused at Antonio’s sigh and resigned chuckle as his friend interrupted, “Ah, of course, but do you think we could make it quick this time? There is this football match on in an hour that I would like to watch.”   
  
“Make what quick, my treasure?” Francis asked absently, already pawing through the contents of Antonio’s cupboards, certain that he would find some of that delicious Rioja.   
  
“The sex,” Antonio answered simply, grabbing Francis’ greedy hands from his wine collection as Francis turned to him in shock.   
  
“Why on earth would you presume I came here for sex?”   
  
Antonio’s eyebrows raised in apparent disbelief, his voice skeptical as he explained his seemingly ludicrous assumption, “You always show up here half drunk and in the mood after one of your chats with the Boss.”   
  
Francis flushed at having been so caught out, thinking this was a very inappropriate time for Antonio to decide to be uncannily perceptive, waving a hand as he answered airily, “Entirely untrue. Sometimes I go to the bars and make someone very lucky for a night.”   
  
He straightened and held out the purloined bottle with his most fetching smile, rolling over Antonio’s objections, “At any rate, my poor put upon little Spaniard, that is not at all what I am here for tonight! In fact, should all go well, you will never be called upon to make such sacrifices again!”   
  
Antonio laughed and surrendered, clearly unable to keep from warming to Francis’ unrestrained excitement and affection, taking the bottle from his hands with an easy smile, “I am happy to hear I’m to be relieved of that duty.”   
  
“You are a horrible friend,” Francis teased, gladly accepting the wine, “If it weren’t for your superior collection of reds, I would almost certainly have no use for you going forward.”   
  
Antonio touched their glasses together, shrugging as he led them into the living room, “Well, I am glad I still have something to offer to your discerning palate. But other than for stealing my wine, why are you here, Francis?”   
  
Francis grinned and sat on the couch, pulling his phone from his pocket, “All things in good time. First we must complete this little circle of horrible friends,” he paused, smirking wickedly, “Though I cannot say how long dear Gilbert will endure the topic at hand.”   
  
“Something Gilbert can’t tolerate? Now I no longer have to fake my interest,” Antonio said smoothly, earning himself a hearty glare of amused offense from Francis as the phone began to ring, tinny and loud on the speaker.   
  
“What do you want, Francis?” Gilbert barked sharply as Antonio and Francis shared a glance of familiar affection for the other third of their triumvirate, “I’m busy. There’s a sweet documentary about the Silesian War on in ten minutes.”   
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to keep you from such scintillating television, my plum,” Francis said, trying to stifle his laughter, “But I wanted to tell you and Antonio something very important.”   
  
“Toni’s there, too?”   
  
“Say hello, Toni,” Francis purred, reaching out to pull Antonio close so they could speak into the phone at once.   
  
“Hello, Gil,” Antonio answered dutifully.   
  
“Well, now that we’re all properly greeted and because I would so hate to prevent my dearest friends from their football and their history, perhaps I might share my news?” Francis asked prettily, excitement and wine in his words.   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“Spit it the fuck out already.”   
  
Francis turned the phone outwards, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, before smiling widely and professing his intentions to the two of the three people who knew him best.   
  
“Gil, I have decided to begin my two front war.”   
  
“Its about fucking time,” Gilbert said with a whistle and Francis thought he could see the wild, manic grin of frightening approval.   
  
“Ah, I am afraid you’ve lost me,” Antonio interjected over the sound of Gilbert’s rasping laughter.   
  
“Francis is going to retake his Dutch territories,” Gilbert helpfully offered before Francis could even speak words,  _I am going after Jos once more_ .   
  
Antonio smiled softly at him, touching their foreheads together as he echoed Gilbert's always delicate sentiments, “Its about fucking time.”   
  
Francis smiled in return, warmed by the easy affection and support freely offered by his friends, brightened and buoyed, knowing more surely that this was the path he needed to walk than he had two hours earlier in the solitude of his office, wondering if Jos truly wanted to be pursued.   
  
“So, shall we expect you to resuming your late night, closed-door business meetings?” Antonio asked, holding up one fingers to his lips as he smirked cruelly and spoke directly into the phone, “By which, of course, I mean having sex with Jos on every available surface of his office?”   
  
“GAH! BATTLE TERMS ONLY, GODDAMN IT!” Gilbert spluttered in outrage as Francis finally gave into the peals of happy laughter than had been threatening to overwhelm him since he had cast his doubts and hesitations aside.   
  
“No, no,” Francis said once he had wiped his eyes dry and quieted his giggles, “Though I do not think his defenses would hold long if I were to launch such an assault, I do not want to use the same strategy as always. Seduction and desire, those are too easy. So easy that I allowed them to blind me entirely to the much longer and harder game that must be played if I am serious about making a more permanent conquest.”   
  
“OK, that was half battle terms. I’ll allow it.” Gilbert said grudgingly while Antonio gave him a low, considering look, as though he had never met a Francis who would forgo the easy sweetness of seduction and sex.   
  
Francis smiled wistfully, voice low and serious as met Antonio’s questioning, kind gaze, “Jos believed, believes most likely, that he was never more than another...ah...land that captured my momentary interest. Because I failed to show him how much I valued his, well, shall we say, strategic importance as part of my kingdom, he felt that once I had tired of his natural resources, I would walk away from our alliance in search of more challenging fronts.”   
  
“I think I understand,” Antonio said slowly, clearly trying to parse his way through Francis’ overwrought metaphor, “So, you can’t jump into bed with him right away because he’ll think you’re just doing it out of either boredom or a need to get laid?”   
  
Francis winced and held the phone away from his ear to avoid the Gilbert’s renewed outrage, rolling his eyes at Antonio.   
  
“What?” Antonio said peaceably, “I prefer not to equate romance with war. I’ll leave the bad allegories to you and Senor Innocente.”   
  
Francis smirked as he cooed soothing apologies into the phone, trying to calm the blushing ruffle of Gilbert’s feathers, explaining gently, “Yes, yes, as much I might want to reacquaint myself with all the wonderful assets my favorite ally has to offer, first I must convince him that I am serious this time. That I am committed to pursuing a more long term strategy. I will lay siege to all his defenses while dismantling my own.”   
  
“That doesn’t make any damned sense as a battle plan,” Gilbert said dryly, “But, for what its worth, I’m hoping it works out the way you want. Just promise never to tell me exactly how the final battle goes down.”   
  
Francis huffed with surprised laughter, “My dear, I believe you just made a dirty joke.”   
  
“Lies,” Gilbert denied far too quickly, “Fuck this, I am hanging up before I catch any more pervert germs.”   
  
“Can one catch germs over the phone, do you think?” Francis asked cheerfully as he set down the phone, reached for his wine and leaned into the welcoming softness of Antonio’s side.   
  
“In Gilbert’s strange little mind? Anything is possible,” Antonio teased affectionately, “But, I, too, hope this works out for you. I think everyone at the Tulip will be on your side.”   
  
Francis blinked, humbled by the unexpected support, “Thank you, my sweet. I shall endeavor to live up to expectations for once.”   
  
Antonio smiled, patting his hand comfortingly over his knee, winking as he said, “Just be yourself, be honest, and hit him with everything you’ve got and it will all be fine.”   
  
Francis covered the hand on his knee with his own, squeezing gently in silent thanks for the kind of friendship and devotion he wasn’t always certain he deserved, before letting the seriousness of the moment slip away, once again alight with excitement and anticipation, feeling as though there was no chance of his defeat with such support behind him.   
  
“You think so?” Francis asked with a saucy grin, imagining how wonderful it would be to introduce Jos to a side of himself even he didn’t know, to stride boldly into the such unknown and rich territory.   
  
“I know it,” Antonio answered, raising his glass in mock salute as he winked at Francis, “After all, its been known to work a time or two before.”   
  
“Well, in that case, I say let the games begin.”   
  
~~   
  
The next morning, Francis put on his favorite blue shirt and the pants that were on the subtle side of too tight, let his hair fall artfully around his face and marched into the field of engagement, ready to launch his first salvo.   
  
As his shoes clipped down the floors of the Blue Tulip, eyes firmly on the closed door at the end of the hallway, he felt as though the future was between his fingers, quieting once and for all the whispers of doubt and fear that told him this was far too dangerous, that he had no way of knowing how to go about something as complicated as playing for keeps.   
  
If a young upstart like Jens could do such a thing, Francis thought arrogantly, there was no way that Francis Bonnefoy could not play a game with stakes ten times higher and against an opponent even more daunting than Jens’ frigid Norwegian beauty.   
  
He had the support of his friends and the blessed return of his own belief that there was no one in this world he could not have. He could only hope that when he was done playing all his cards, Jos would want to have him in turn.   
  
Without knocking he pushed open the door to Jos’ office, smiling recklessly into the face of Jos’ lovely disapproval and irritation, taking a deep breath as he licked his lips and met Jos’ questioning gaze, finally ready for his opening gambit.   
  
He was ready to reclaim what was his. What was theirs.   
  
He exhaled and began, “My darling, I was wondering if you might have a moment.....”


	3. Eirik

**Sent: November 28, 2012 @ 3:45pm  
From: d_jens@btstudios.nl  
To: n_eirik@btstudios.nl**   
  
_Hi :)  
  
Love,  
Jens_   
  
**Sent: November 28, 2012 @ 4:15pm  
From: n_eirik@btstudios.nl  
To: d_jens@btstudios.nl**   
  
_Idiot. When I said write to me, I intended for you to leave the country first. Or at the very least, the building.  
  
~E_   
  
**Sent: November 28, 2012 @ 4:20pm  
From: d_jens@btstudios.nl  
To: n_eirik@btstudios.nl**   
  
_Should have been more specific then!  
  
Where’s the fun in waiting?  
  
Love,  
Jens_   
  
**Sent: November 28, 2012 @ 4:22pm  
From: n_eirik@btstudios.nl  
To: d_jens@btstudios.nl**   
  
_I always knew if I gave you an inch you would take a mile. Fool.  
  
I shouldn’t be surprised that I have to explain such a simple concept to you and yet....  
  
When one writes letters (or in this case, email--and, honestly, Jens, do you think the company server is really the appropriate choice for this), the intent is to be gone long enough to allow for someone to desire contact.  
  
To miss someone. So to speak.  
  
-E_   
  
  
**Sent: November 28, 2012 @ 4:25pm  
From: d_jens@btstudios.nl  
To: n_eirik@btstudios.nl**   
  
_As if Francis will care. Also, why should I care...I don’t work here anymore!! :D  
  
…..are you saying you’re going to miss me, Norge?  
  
Love,  
Jens_   
  
**Sent: November 28, 2012 @ 4:30pm  
From: n_eirik@btstudios.nl  
To: d_jens@btstudios.nl**   
  
_Idiot, idiot Jens.  
  
Francis will care very much. As will the silent Dutchman since these emails are company property and therefore fair game to be used in whatever fashion the twisted frog sees fit.  
  
So, while you may have nothing to worry about in your blissful new state of unemployment, I would prefer not to have my private correspondence splashed over the company newsletter.  
  
You will email me at this address, eirik@gmail.no or write to me at my home or not at all.  
  
Who would miss someone who won’t go away?  
  
~E_   
  
**Sent: December 7, 2012 @ 8:00am  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no**   
  
_Eirik!  
  
Miss me yet? As you may have noticed, I am no longer in the building. Or in Holland, for that matter.  
  
Hello from sunny Greece (btw, tell Heracles this place *is* awesome)! I'm all hooked up to the shitty but treasured wi-fi connection my buddy Cy has in his place here in Athens! (Where I’ll be crashing whenever we’re on shore...just in case you ever need to find me).  
  
For the next few days, we’re running day cruises out to Hydra and Poros so I can get the hang of his sweet boat--seriously, you would totally get hard if you could see this beauty. The first time I laid eyes on her, I thought, “damn that’s the second best looking thing I’ve ever seen.”  
  
Do you want me to tell you the first-best? ;)  
  
Anyways, until we start heading out on the 7 and 14 day jaunts, you can AND SHOULD email me. Every day, twice a day! Because once I’m blue seas bound, its bye-bye wi-fi and hello trusting the postal service of the Greek Islands until I’m in Athens again.  
  
How’s the Tulip?  
  
Wait....I am not sure I want to know. Actually, I do....but, I think we should devise a new system of communication, just like we were any other lovers separated by distance, shooting the shit about their jobs.  
  
You know, like saying, “Dearest Jens---today I had a power lunch with Sadiq and Feliks, followed by an afternoon meeting with Francis to discuss my performance review. Of course, I’ve never had better lunches than the ones I had with you and my appetite for more will never be sated, but I do what I must. All my endless love, Eirik.”  
  
Or something like that ;)  
  
I miss you. And I didn’t have to leave the building for that to be true.  
  
Love,  
Jens_   
  
~~   
  
When Eirik scrolled through his email that morning while drinking a quiet cup of coffee in the cool stillness of his Amsterdam apartment, his initial desire had been to write a one line response to the absent idiot telling him to _“Go lunch himself.”_   
  
But once the flush of irritation and disbelief at the level of stupidity had passed, Eirik found that he was experiencing something far worse and far more troubling. He was relieved and maybe even a tiny bit pleased to have heard from Jens after almost ten days of no word. He had not thought the world could sustain itself for such a long period of time without Jens’ hot air to warm it.    
  
So instead of giving into his first impulse to tell Jens where he could shove his useless suggestions and in spite of his cool disapproval of such useless sentimentality, Eirik looked at the clock and typed out a quick reply, figuring it was best to give the idiot his response, lest he return home to an inbox full of pleading, worrying messages.    
  
**Sent: December 7, 2012 at 8:55am  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk**   
  
_Jens-  
  
I will convey your approval to Heracles. No doubt it will mean so much to him to know that a Northern European likes the warmer and sunnier climes of the Mediterranean. I am certain he has never heard such praise before.  
  
Tell me more about this boat and I’ll let you know if it is worthy of my approval.  
  
There is no such thing as first-best, fool. That would just be best.  
  
~E  
  
ps-- Go lunch yourself, idiot._   
  
  
Satisfied, strangely buoyed by the exuberance of Jens’ words and the pleasure of still being able to mock his favorite target for scorn, Eirik hit send and made his way towards the Studios and his brunch meeting with Feliks.   
  
~~~   
  
“How’s your boyfriend?” Feliks asked smartly, earning himself a withering glare from across the sauna as Eirik dragged a towel over the mess on his stomach and wished that his co-stars realized that once the scene was over there was no obligation to continue speaking.   
  
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Eirik said coldly, tossing the towel to the floor and reaching for the bathrobes that he and Feliks had quickly abandoned during their mutual jerk-off scene, “But Jens is well. Sunning himself in Greece.”   
  
“Oooooh, I totally called it! You are keeping in touch with him!” Feliks’ knowing smirk grated at his nerves, the obvious delight in his voice only exacerbating his annoyance.   
  
“I fail to see how that is any concern of yours,” Eirik spat, disliking his colleague's prying fingers in his personal business, wondering what he could do to convince Francis to never pair him with the mouthy Pole again, regretting that he had rejected Sweden...at least Berwald appreciated the value of silence.   
  
Perhaps Heracles was available. Or even the German. He would likely welcome a reprieve from his own talkative troubles.   
  
“La, its like not my concern at all,” Feliks said tartly, pleasingly offended by Eirik’s rebuke, smirking nastily as he continued, “I just think its like way romantic. And I had to get proof from the ice princess’ mouth, since half the Studio bet you’d be too cold of a bastard to do something as sugar sweet as writing to like your way pleasanter half.”   
  
“Ridiculous,” Eirik scoffed through his burning annoyance, tightening the belt around his robe and making for the door, furious but not surprised that the fools he worked with had taken such a keen interest in his little drama with Jens (who was still owed a swift kick to the shins for putting him in such an untenable position).   
  
“But I congratulate you on your worthless victory,” Eirik said silkily as he turned to leave, determined to show no weakness, even in the face of such hunger for gossip, staring blandly into Feliks’ eager, calculating smile.   
  
“Mmm, thanks, I like totes appreciate it.” Feliks said prettily, swinging his still naked legs over the sauna bench, winking around his gleeful taunt, “Be sure to tell your boyfriend I said hello.”   
  
~~~   
After such a trying day, Eirik was annoyed enough to determine that deliberately ignoring his computer for several hours that afternoon and into the evening was a suitable punishment for Jens and his flare for the dramatics. Though his eyes kept drifting to the closed laptop on the kitchen counter, his mind was certain that there were other, far more worthy tasks that merited his attention around the house.   
  
Unfortunately, there was nothing on television, Aron was not answering his phone, and every book he picked up seemed somehow trite and uncompelling, his attention wandering aimlessly as he tried to stoke the flames of his irritation and deny the urge to check his inbox. Clearly, the only explanation for his restless fascination with the innocent computer staring at him from the counter was that it had just been so long since he’d had something as frivolous as a pen-pal and it was the novelty of indulgence that was causing this intense curiosity, this strange need to know if Jens had written back.   
  
It had been even longer since he had had someone who wanted to hear about his day, he mused as he cast a glance over the sole picture he kept in his living room, smirking at Aron’s scowling, irate face as he endured the humiliation of the birthday sombrero.   
  
At length, after another hour of testing his will, Eirik gave in and pulled the computer on to his lap, settling on the couch and clicking through his inbox, determined to read every message in the order it was received and not search for anything of particular importance or interest. It wouldn’t do for Jens to get the idea that he was somehow a priority above the countless spam messages and Google notifications for “Norway, Blue Tulip.”   
  
Sighing and clicking on the one message that he had been so studiously avoiding, Eirik put his chin in his palm and began to read, letting himself be washed away to Greek shores.    
  
**Sent: December 7, 2012 @ 5:17pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Attachments: mysexynewride.jpg, almostashotasyou.jpg**   
  
_Eirik,  
  
Go lunch myself, eh? Good to know you can still make me laugh from 3,000 kilometers away. I appreciate the suggestion, but you know I really prefer to dine with others.  
  
I hope they aren’t forcing you to take too many meetings. I think I’d prefer it if your calendar stayed appointment free forever.  
  
I’ve attached a few pics of my new place of employment. While it may lack certain amenities that only the Tulip had on offer, I think you’ll have to agree that its not half bad! 12 meters of single masted goodness. Three cabins below deck, tacks like a beauty, and six knots on a good day.  
  
Like I said, the second best looking thing I’ve ever seen. A total upgrade from my first boat, which was barely that--more like a dinghy with a sail that held more water than it did people, not that I cared, because I was thirteen and my father was finally letting me go out on my own and damn, it tasted like freedom and possibility.  
  
Was it like that for you?  
  
Love,  
Jens  
  
Ps--You’ll always be the first-best and the best-best._   
  
He had intended to pour forth his Jens-induced work frustrations, but when Eirik finished the missive and hit reply without pause, there was a flush on his cheeks and his mind wondered how it was that Jens could engender such ridiculous reactions from such a distance, how it was that words on a screen could slide under his skin just as warm and cloying as the once familiar touch of Jens’ hands on his body.   
  
**Sent: December 7, 2012 at 7:38pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk**   
  
_Jens,  
  
Who you dine with has never been a particular interest of mine.  
  
As for work, my calendar has been suspiciously bare since your departure. I imagine that Francis is still trying to decide how to maximize my talents, but then again, all of his time and attention seems to have been recently redirected._   
  
He paused, irritation reigniting, fingers pounding a furious tempo on the keyboard as he imagined how gratifying it would be to direct such rage at Jens’ idiotic smile.   
  
_That said, I am beginning to wonder if my sudden free time has something to do with a particular announcement made before a certain idiot flounced off towards the horizon spouting nonsense about grand romantic gestures and greater sacrifices._   
  
He smirked, considering how best to exact revenge at such a distance and disadvantage, knowing that if he could not actually deliver a swift blow to Jens’ knees, he could at least twist his knife in beneath his ribs, just to remind him exactly who it was Jens claimed to miss so fervently. Who it was that warranted the stupidity of every message signed with love.   
  
_But no matter, I am certain that in time Francis will be arranging for team meetings and group projects. Personally, I am angling for the opportunity to collaborate with Heracles. I’ve always had an appreciation for the precision and firmness of his work, and perhaps I too would like a taste of the Greek Isles._   
  
Assuaged by the thought of Jens’ unnecessary jealousy, Eirik considered his grudge settled for the time being, hoping that within a few weeks some other scandal would pop up in the Blue Tulip garden and he would permitted to return to his silence and his correspondence in peace, without helpful reminders of how Jens continually managed to wreak havoc in his orderly little life.   
  
Besides, much to his chagrin, Eirik was finding it difficult to maintain his anger when confronted with such a gorgeous ship, and in spite of the idiocy of the file names, he saved each image to his desktop, trying to keep his mind from imagining Jens standing on the deck, shirtless and grinning like a fool, holding out a hand to welcome him on board. Obviously, Eirik thought with a shudder, willing away such fanciful visions, it had  been too long since he had been at sea, alone with the vast expanse of blue-gray and dangerous depths.   
  
_I also cannot fault the precision and prettiness of that yacht. I can hardly believe that someone would entrust a Dane with such a fine ship. Such things should be left to your betters from the North....  
  
My first memory of the open sea? It was so long ago, I sometimes doubt that the memory is entirely real, but I remember that I was very small and the boat seemed so large, though I am sure to adult eyes, it wouldn’t be much more than simple sail boat. Aron was so young he still fit within the span of my mother’s arms and I remember feeling glad that I was grown-up enough that my father let me stand at the steering wheel, his hands over mine as we cut through the waters off of Reykjavik._   
  
Eirik stilled, touching a cold hand to his face, tracing the startling curve of a wistful, happy smile as he started at the words he had just written, blinking into the monitor as the bittersweet warmth of memory curled around him.   
  
_I have not thought of that day in many years._   
  
His fingers hesitated over the keys, uncertainty warring with the gentleness of his thoughts.   
  
_Thank you for reminding me that such a time once existed.  
  
~Eirik_   
  
Before he could question such a gesture, before could consider what it would likely mean to an overzealous and affectionate man like Jens, Eirik hit send and clapped the laptop shut, leaving recrimination and denial for another morning, choosing to stay within haze of his sea-spray daydreams and the strange experience of feeling grateful for Jens.


	4. Eirik

No matter how prurient the work it seemed there were some facets of being employed that were inescapable. Such as mandatory attendance at monthly staff meetings and enduring the tedium of listening to van Rijn reiterate certain company policies and making vague threats related to the continued profitability and marketability of the talent, (namely but not limited to: changes to hair color must be pre-approved by upper management, no tattoos or piercings without Bonnefoy’s permission, and a general reminder that the company gym was always available for use, _but not for naps, Mr. Vargas_ ).   
  
This diatribe, thankfully brief and concise, was almost always followed by lengthier remarks from the Frenchman, beguiling and flattering his co-workers into believing that really, the Blue Tulip existed only for their happiness and professional development. Much to Eirik’s disdain, Bonnefoy generally succeeded in having the masses eating from his palm since the majority of his colleagues were on the payroll for organs bigger than their brains.   
  
The meetings were, to say the least, not high on his list of favored activities, but he had little other choice but to attend, especially when Francis cornered him that morning and insisted he not find a convenient but convincing reason to be absent this time, smiling slyly and needlessly brushing an errant strand of hair behind his ear as he promised it would be worth his time.   
  
Slinking into the conference room at the very last moment, coolly ignoring the still irritatingly curious stares he received from the sluttiest of the gossip mavens, Eirik claimed the seat nearest to Berwald, taking refuge behind his bulk and his quiet, surreptitiously pulling out his phone and opening his email.   
  
“Good weekend?” Berwald asked, entirely out of character, earning himself a slow look of puzzlement from Eirik until he noted the blue and purple blemish just under the collar of his shirt that told him everything he didn’t really want to know about Berwald’s weekend.   
  
“Tolerable,” Eirik responded flatly, already returning his attention to his inbox.   
  
“Spent mine with Tino,” Berwald informed him needlessly, seemingly unable to contain his obvious besotted joy.   
  
Eirik smirked and poked a finger into the love bite, vaguely bemused by the changes in his friend’s personality, contemplating taking a picture of the amorous evidence to send to Jens in the hopes it would upset his indelicate sensibilities.   
  
“I can tell,” Eirik murmured, digging his finger in deeply for a brief moment just to watch the spread of Berwald’s flush, “But I am glad for you.”   
  
“Are you now?” Berwald mumbled, looking at him askance, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.   
  
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Eirik asked dryly, hitting send/receive once more before putting his phone away with odd frustration.   
  
“No reason,” Berwald said quietly, sounding dangerously close to amused, “Just never would have expected to hear that from you.”   
  
“I fail to see why,” Eirik drawled under his breath as Bonnefoy and van Rijn swept into the room, wrapped up in close conversation and sharing that look that Eirik knew meant they possessed a secret.   
  
Berwald nudged him, stone face broken into a gently teasing smirk as he leaned over to whisper, “Six weeks ago you said you didn’t believe in people like us looking for love, remember? Changed your tune on that score?”   
  
Eirik scowled haughtily and turned away, pretending to be as interested in the on-going Franco-Dutch slow dance as the idiot Spaniard, because he did remember saying such a thing on an afternoon that felt like a lifetime ago, before the ending of Denmark-Norway and the cause of the utterly ridiculous words now coming from Francis’ mouth.   
  
“Now, my treasures, I am certain that you have noticed the departure of our dearest Dane,” Francis said, voice obnoxiously sorrowful as his gaze landed squarely on Eirik’s unimpressed visage, winking once before he continued, “And in order to celebrate his many accomplishments during his years as a Blue Tulip, Mr. van Rijn and I have decided to make the theme of our annual New Year’s Eve party entirely Denmark-centric! Give our once favorite and still beloved nation a final send-off before we drink and dance our way into a brand new year!”   
  
While room broke into hoots and whistles of approval, Eirik stifled a snort of disgusted laughter, already imagining how insufferable Jens was going to be when he was told the news of this travesty.   
  
“Problem?” Berwald grunted, clapping half-heartedly along with the rest of the barking seals.   
  
“Can you imagine how he’ll gloat when he finds out?” Eirik scoffed, wondering how he could couch the revelation so it came off as more insulting than celebratory, “The whole of the Mediterranean won’t be large enough to contain his ego.”   
  
Berwald nodded, shrugging as though resigned long ago to Jens’ antics, “Suppose that’s true.”   
  
“I’ll have to create a spam filter to delete any emails with subject headings that reference his awesome or contain more than one exclamation point or ridiculous emoticons,” Eirik mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes at Berwald’s badly faked expression of disinterest.   
  
“Oh, for God’s sake! Not you too,” Eirik hissed, shooting daggers as he shifted his chair away, betrayed by Berwald’s heretofore unknown love for gossip, “I would think you have more interesting things to think about than my correspondence with Idiot Jens.”   
  
“He’s my friend,” Berwald answered simply, “So are you. Don’t think its so bad to be interested in your happiness.”   
  
Eirik stared, unsettled by the ease with which Berwald now counted him friend and claimed investiture in his happiness, not a little wary of exactly  _what_  being in love could do to a man. It was unnatural. He was spared having to answer by the pounding of van Rijn’s fist on the table, demanding and receiving the room’s attention while Francis smirked and fluttered his eyelashes in what was apparently intended to be an apology.   
  
Once van Rijn had finished boring holes into Bonnefoy’s irritatingly smug face, he began to speak, voice low and droll as ever, fingers drumming on the wood until stilled by Francis’ easy, presumptuous touch. Eirik looked around the room to see if his gossip adoring co-workers were as taken aback by this unusual addition to their rote performance, annoyed to find that no one but he seemed to find it out of place.   
  
All thoughts of van Rijn and Bonnefoy and their strange, distasteful dynamic flew from the window of his mind when he heard their Dutch overlord say, “And as this has been a profitable and productive quarter, and many of you have requested significant vacation time for this month, Francis and I have decided it most efficient to close the Studios for the Christmas holidays. As of next Monday, December 17, the office is closed.”   
  
So much for Jens being the big story of the hour, Eirik thought smugly as the room broke into happy chaos once more, pleased enough by the prospect of two weeks unencumbered by colleagues and commitments to join in the merriment by clapping briefly and allowing a smile to grace his lips.   
  
“Rest assured,” van Rijn grumbled over the din, “You are all expected to return--and return as you were when you left, as per company policy--on December 31st prior to the Studio sponsored New Year’s party. Is that understood?”   
  
“Oh, my darling, I think you may have to put that in writing. Somehow I think your wonderful generosity has deafened them all to any talk of responsibility,” Francis said with rich amusement as he watched the chaos in the room, meeting Eirik’s bored gaze with shake of his head and a shrug before returning his efforts to placating van Rijn’s completely valid annoyance.   
  
Eirik stood, knowing that nothing of relevance could possibly be communicated, smirking as he noticed Berwald texting furiously, secret little smile marring the sternness of his face.   
  
“Big plans?”   
  
Berwald barely even looked up, so altered that he disappointed with his lack of grumble and blush, answering shamelessly, “Texting Tino. He’s wanted me to go to Finland with him for the holidays.”   
  
“Meeting the family?” Eirik scoffed disdainfully, shuddering at the unbidden thought of Jens and Aron ever being in the same room at the same time.   
  
Apparently finished with his textual missive, Berwald looked up, voice playful as he said, “Among other things. Sauna type things.”   
  
“How wonderful for you,” Eirik drawled, rolling his eyes, “Don’t let Francis hear about it or he’ll have a camera between your legs.”   
  
“What are you going to do?” Berwald asked lowly, gaze flicking over to Bonnefoy as he, too, stood, touching one hand to the happy, insistent buzzing in his pockets.   
  
Eirik stalled, considering, unused to having such a luxury as time without commitment or responsibility and he thought of where he would most like to be for the holidays, smiling faintly as he imagined the look on Aron’s face when he inspected his dormitory and found it entirely lacking.   
  
“I shall go visit my brother.”   
  
~~~   
  
**Sent: December 10, 2012 at 12:05pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk**   
  
_Jens-  
  
Even though you’ve yet to respond to my email from last night, (and please do not take this second message as some sort of request that you repeat Saturday night's spamming of my inbox with suggestions of what you would like to do me in the white sands. Perhaps you should consider staying away from electronics when that intoxicated, idiot. One, it was cliche. Two, if anyone should be forced to endure bottoming in the sand, its you. If you are going to be so predictable as to try to engage me in lewd letter writing, at least make the scenario worth my time and interest), I’ve news to share.  
  
Though I am certain that you will find out via the Studio website, I think you should know that Bonnefoy and van Rijn are plotting one last exploitation of your dubious talents. Apparently, for reasons known only within the twisted confines of their minds, our dear leaders have decided that the NYE party should be entirely Denmark-centric. I have my suspicions as to why this is so, but I can’t imagine those are of interest to you since I can imagine your expression as you are reading this, and even now, thousands of kilometers away, I find myself annoyed by the enthusiasm and ridiculousness of your smile.  
  
In less appalling news, the Studios will be closed for the holidays. And no, before you even think to ask, I will NOT be coming to visit you in Greece. I plan to inflict a little brotherly supervision on Aron with my time-off, not fulfill your deluded daydreams of a tumble on the beach.  
  
That said, I will be gone for the next two weeks, starting on or around December 17 (provided I can find flights to Hong Kong at this late date), so if you were considering mailing anything to my Amsterdam address, I will not be there to collect it. Email will continue to be the preferred method of reaching me should you have any need.  
  
Well. I’m running late to a....conference call.  
  
~E_   
  
~~~~   
  
“What now?”   
  
Eirik smirked, cradling the phone against between chin and shoulder as he pulled up his browser, “Honestly, one would think you were raised with no manners, Aron.”   
  
“I hardly think you rate manners considering the uncouthness of your line of work,” Aron answered coolly while Eirik began searching for flight costs that would not deprive Aron of textbooks for the winter quarter.   
  
“On the contrary, little brother,” Eirik said smoothly, relishing the words as they rolled off his tongue, “One of the most important rules of my business is never to talk with your mouth full.”   
  
“That’s disgusting,” Aron replied, voice conveying that very sentiment until this tone changed into something smug and entirely inappropriate, “But I would have thought you were on a diet now that your boyfriend is gone.”   
  
“He is not my boyfriend,” Eirik gritted out, disappointed in his inability not to rise to such cheap baiting, “And my diet is neither here nor there at the moment.”   
  
Aron laughed dryly, obviously all too aware that he had scored a hit, “Then I repeat, what now?”   
  
Eirik smirked and moved his mouse over the cheapest flight he could find on such short notice, clicking to purchase before he even informed Aron, “I will be coming to visit you for Christmas.”   
  
He smirk deepened at the little gasp of surprise Aron allowed to escape before he attempted to cover his pleasure at the announcement, “Don’t you think you should ask me first?”   
  
“No.” Eirik snorted and started typing in his credit card information, thinking how surreal it was to have this unexpected gift of time, and though he would never express it, how happy he was to have this chance to see this place that made his brother so happy. “I am entitled to check up on my investment whenever I see fit.”   
  
“If you insist,” Aron answered blandly, “I suppose I can play the good little brother and entertain you.”   
  
“I do insist and you will like it,” Eirik snapped fondly, logging into his email to forward his brand new itinerary.   
  
“More manners you learned in the workplace?” Aron teased coolly.   
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Eirik said with a chuff of amusement, distracted from Aron’s smug enjoyment of his own wit by the email logged directly below the itinerary, clicking on it without even questioning his intentions, the subject line and attachments seemingly too alluring to ignore.   
  
**Sent: December 10, 2012 @ 3:13pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: You’re right...I am an idiot :D  
Attachments: foryourmockingpleasure.jpg**   
  
“Brother.....are you laughing?” Aron’s skeptical voice interrupted Eirik’s heartfelt delight in the picture he was currently ogling, snapping him back to reality.   
  
“Apologies,” He said, still swallowing little ripples of laughter that were alarmingly close to giggles, “I was admiring the picture Idiot Jens was so kind to send to me...seems the fool fell asleep on deck without remembering his Nordicness and with his phone and his sunglasses on his stomach, making for a rather impressive and ridiculous sunburn.”   
  
“I see....” Aron said slowly, far, far too bemused for Eirik’s taste, “And you just had to open the picture right now? In the middle of our conversation?”   
  
“I just received the email,” Eirik answered defensively, not appreciating the knowing tone in his brother’s voice, regretting that he had ever opened that particular door of possibility, “I can hardly be faulted for wanting to see something that validates my long held opinions.”   
  
“Of course not, Brother,” Aron replied condescendingly, “In fact, far be it for me to keep you from reading your love letters. You can call me back when you've finished sighing and swooning like a schoolgirl.”   
  
Aron had the nerve to hang up, still tittering with irritating amusement before Eirik could protest that these emails were in no way, shape, or form anything resembling a love letter. He considered calling his brother back to give him another lesson in manners until he glanced once more at the image of Jens’ red stomach and the two tell-tale patches of unscathed white, a little touched that Jens would share his failure so shamelessly, knowing what pleasure it would bring him.   
  
Unexpected vacation time, an opportunity to harass Aron, and picture proof of Jens’ idiocy.   
  
All in all, this had been a very gratifying Monday.   
  
With a hint of a smile, figuring it would only be expedient to read the email as it was already open, Eirik settled in to further enjoy the charms of Jens' foolishness.   
  
**Sent: December 10, 2012 @ 3:13pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: You’re right...I am an idiot :D  
Attachments: foryourmockingpleasure.jpg**   
  
_Dear Eirik,  
  
Sorry to took me a little longer than usual to write back---I hope you weren’t missing me too badly. Wait....that's a total lie. In fact, I hope you were pining for me, checking your email every five minutes, and wasting away with wanting. Ya know, like I am ;)  
  
I hope you get a kick out of the picture. The pain I am currently in better be worth something, damn it all :P  As it turns out, ouzo is much stronger than I had anticipated, and thanks to a little Saturday indulgence, I spent most of Sunday in a haze I haven’t experienced since Berwald and I took the championship for KTH and turned Stockholm inside out. I'd just taken off my sunglasses to try and piece together the, uh, many loving messages I so thoughtfully sent you courtesy of Greek liquor, and I swear I'd only meant to close my eyes for a second to more fully enjoy the vision of you, naked and wet on the sand, and then bam---four hours later....this. The sunburn hurts like a bitch and I'll be forced to wear a shirt for the next week to hide the damned tan lines, but...I can just picture your face when you look at the picture, and let me tell you, if I weren’t in Greece, I’d be forced to kiss you.  
  
Sooooo.....a Denmark themed New Year’s Eve party? Damn, why couldn’t Francis have found me that awesome when I *actually* worked there? Well, I guess I can just comfort myself with the fact that at least some part of me gets to ring in the New Year with you :)  
  
(By the by, I actually try to stay the hell away from the website. It kinda tends to become time consuming for me whenever I happen to accidentally stumble on any of our old shoots. Cy complained that I was taking up too much of his bandwidth, so I’ve had to switch back to good old fashioned fantasizing. And, hey, if you find my fantasies too boring....I’m always open to suggestions. And description. Lots of description. With pictorial demonstrations if you’re feeling extra-instructive.)  
  
I’m glad you are getting time off to spend with your brother. I’d like to meet him one day, I’m sure we’d get along like wildfire :D  
  
I’ll email when I can--but we’re about to head out on a 14 day trip with some hoity-toity Americans (the woman grabbed my ass twice during the orientation on Saturday. I think I may need you to come protect my virtue. I keep telling her I'm involved, but she doesn't seem to give a shit!), so I don’t know if any letters I manage to send will make it to you before you run off to Hong Kong and leave me alone and unscathed by your merciless wit.  
  
But I will try and reach you however I am able....if you promise to do the same. Consider it your Christmas gift to me, since I can’t seem to get the one I really want.  
  
Love,  
Jens  
  
ps---Now that I know all about your brother, I wouldn’t have asked you to spend your sweet surprise vacation time with me....but just knowing you even considered it for a second....I dunno, Norge...I think we might be getting somewhere :)_


	5. Francis

It was the last day of 2012 and Francis was certain that he had never been quite so excited to be once more at work. Oh, the holidays had been lovely, warm and full of Cousin Jeanne’s affection, and it was never a chore to go home to France and spend time with what little family he had outside of the four walls of the Blue Tulip, but the problem with France was that it was not, in fact, populated by the Dutch. One Dutchman in particular, who Francis would no longer deny was the source of the impatient itch beneath his skin and lingering sense of wonderful anticipation he had felt from the moment they parted with the temporary closing of the Studio doors, with murmured best wishes and the faintest look of surprise in cool eyes when Francis did no more or less than brush his lips over Jos’ cheek and walk away, hands shoved resolutely in his jacket pockets.   
  
Jos was certainly the sole reason he had cut the remaining hours of his freedom short and come rushing back to the office on the off, but not entirely unlikely, chance that his workaholic darling would also feel the need to slip once more from personal into professional before the revelry of The Blue Tulip New Year’s Eve Party 2012.   
  
The memory of Jos’ wary interest and skepticism, the brief narrowing of his gaze each time Francis sidled just a little too near to be anything other than intentional and called him darling, proclaimed him dearest was enough to sustain him through the long, quiet evenings in the charm of rural Lorraine, drinking Jeanne’s wine and attempting to duck her too pointed questioning as to what exactly it was that had so captured his wandering attention back home. He had almost been relieved of the distance after so many weeks of deliberately closing the space between them to something more than colleagues but less than lovers, unsure of how long he could hold to his resolution to show Jos that this time it was about more than desire and discovery.   
  
Though as much as his own fingers longed to give far more than fleeting touches and little reminders of the physicality that they once enjoyed so thoroughly and though Francis was by no means ignorant of the way Jos’ body responded to him in the too quick seconds before his cautious mind regained control, Jos remained curious but aloof. It was as though he was allowing Francis to blur the lines between them just enough so he could see what pattern was emerging, as he warmed to the renewed thrill of their meeting of minds but stayed cool, if permissive, to the seduction of the chase. There was something so beguiling in watching Jos try to puzzle out his intentions, though Francis could not help but wonder how darkly Jos had painted their past for his eyes to appear to so often confused when Francis came to him with affection on his lips and honesty in his touch.   
  
Ah, well, Francis thought with a wistful smile, he knew that if Jos were so easy to ensnare it would not be worth the hunt.   
  
The sound of footsteps clipping confidently down the hall sharpened his anticipation to a fine point, pleasure rousing in chest, mind awakening as it always did to the challenge that Jos presented. Francis touched his hands to his hair and smoothed the collar of his shirt as he listened to the approach, startled by the unexpected trill of pretty laughter accompanying the sharp sound of a familiar gait.   
  
He risked rolling his chair slightly to the side to peer down the hallway, too curious as to who it was Jos would allow to laugh with such a lack of restraint in his presence without grumbling. Jos had brought company back with him from his holiday it seemed...company in the form of his delightful younger sister, which had Francis mentally scrambling, having not yet drafted his battle plans for enlisting the critical support from Jos’ few but terribly important allies. Francis had not anticipated needing to plead his case for the renewal of Veronika’s once teasing, but genuine, investment in her elder brother’s more domestic affairs for several more weeks.   
  
“What are you doing here?” Jos asked brusquely as they came to halt in front of his office, Veronika peering around from her brother’s broad back.   
  
“Hello to you, too, my darling,” Francis answered wryly, standing from his desk and readying himself to charm his way into Veronika’s good graces, “And Veronika, what a pleasant surprise! I had no idea you were joining us for the New Year.”   
  
Veronika smiled at him gently, pushing her brother resolutely out of the way and stepping towards Francis as she answered, “It was a last minute decision. For some reason, I couldn’t help but want to invite myself along for the party, no matter how much this one here grumbled and tried to dissuade me. I think perhaps I caught my brother’s recent case of antipathy for Antwerp and agreed with his silent prescription of returning to  Amsterdam as the cure.”   
  
Raising an eyebrow at Jos’ sudden aversion for looking at anything but the far wall of his office, Francis laughed and held out his hands to Veronika, delighted by the mischievous glint her in eyes that told him he had been outflanked and outmaneuvered, wondering just how it was stoic, uncommunicative Jos gave enough away to pique his sister’s interest.   
  
“Well,” Francis said as he pressed quick kisses to Veronika’s cheeks, “Regardless of the reason, I am happy to see you!”   
  
Veronika giggled lightly and returned the gesture, gaze bright and alert as Francis risked Jos’ thunderous disapproval to show his hand to his sister’s eyes, brushing the same kisses of hello over Jos’ stern face, pleasantly surprised when Jos readily accepted the greeting, turning his head without complaint or delay to welcome the touch of Francis’ hello.   
  
“How cruel of you to drag your lovely sister to the office,” Francis teased, resisting the urge to run his tongue over his lips and feel the residual chill of Jos’ skin, “What brings you in?”   
  
Jos smirked and let his hand drop from Francis’ waist, answering smartly, “Same reason as you, no doubt.”   
  
“Oh, I do hope so, my little workaholic,” Francis murmured, daydreaming of a Jos that would come into the office just for the chance of being reunited before the chaos and delirium of the evening festivities, favoring Jos with a low, gaze full of whispered intention before letting the moment slip away when Veronika cleared her throat.   
  
She slipped her arm through Jos’, earning a scowl tinged with fondness as she leaned her head against his shoulder and eyed Francis knowingly, “Brother does like work a little too much, I think. But perhaps you would be willing to tear yourself away and have a coffee with me, Francis?”   
  
Francis smiled his acceptance, wondering if he could take this warm reception as a sign that Veronika would in fact take up his cause, would welcome the renewal of old affections. This open friendliness, couched as ever in the lovely softness so markedly different from that of her brother, was such a turn from the day Veronika stood at his threshold and in the finest van Rijn fashion told him that she was very sorry, but that she had misplaced their Oma’s appeltaart recipe and she would no longer be able to share it with as promised.   
  
Though she had softened to him over time, as the air between him and Jos had grown easier to breathe, Francis had always wondered just what was she thought she understood about her brother and his disappointment of a partner.   
  
“I need to speak with him first,” Jos said sharply, though he did not dislodge his sister’s hold, “Since you insisted on accompanying me here, you’ll understand that business takes precedence over frivolity.”   
  
Francis smothered his amusement, winking quickly at an equally tickled Veronika before nodding solemnly at Jos, “Certainly, my dear, business before pleasure, even when pleasure is your business. Veronika, perhaps I can meet you at the cafe in fifteen minutes?”   
  
“Of course,” Veronika said cheerfully, releasing her brother as she turned on her heel to leave, “But don’t let him monopolize your time for too long!”   
  
Jos snorted and rolled his eyes, endearingly immature for the briefest moment while Veronika sauntered out of the office, doubtless readying her French interrogation.   
  
“I would ask you about your holiday, my treasure,” Francis said happily, returning to his desk, “But the look on your face tells me you would much rather share whatever triumph you’ve just achieved and I would never deny you such pleasure.”   
  
“And how do you know I have good news?” Jos asked with cool interest, settling on Francis’ couch, fingers shifting distractedly over the abandoned throw pillow.   
  
“Because when you are pleased with the world and how it has bent to your will, you cannot quite keep your smirk or the satisfaction you carry in your shoulders from giving you away, at least not to me,” Francis answered smoothly, voice rich with affection, smiling at the glint of appreciation and cautious curiosity in Jos’ expression.   
  
“How very observant of you,” Jos murmured dryly as Francis watched the continued fidgeting of his hands.   
  
“With such a captivating subject? Always.” Francis said plainly, enjoying the tiny widening of Jos’ eyes, that spark of suspicion mingled with something he imagined was yearning in his most maudlin and indulgent moments.   
  
He stifled a sigh when Jos immediately frowned and looked away, lightening the mood and walking back from the line that he desperately wanted to cross, still not entirely sure how best to present his suit to Jos’ disbelieving heart.   
  
“In fact,” Francis said mischievously, “my current observations are making me wildly inquisitive as to who convinced you to give up smoking over the holidays.”   
  
Jos’ eyebrows arched in surprise, his tone reluctantly impressed despite the grumbled displeasure of his query, “What makes you ask?”   
  
“You can’t keep your hands still and you rub your fingers together as though you miss having something between them.”   
  
Jos frowned, holding his hands before them as though trying to figure out how they could have so betrayed him, sighing, “My interfering sister. She won’t allow me to smoke in her home and told me that I ought to find other outlets for my restlessness.”   
  
Francis pursed his lips and swallowed the lewd suggestions of more pleasurable methods of distraction and stress relief.   
  
Instead, he laughed lightly at Jos’ pinched expression of distaste, knowing this little experiment in tobacco restraint would only last until the day Veronika returned home and took all her powers of sisterly persuasion with her.   
  
“Enough deconstruction of my predictability,” Jos said darkly, clearly unamused by Francis’ delight in his sibling-induced suffering, spreading his hands over his knees and leaning forward as he continued, “I wanted to update you on tonight’s celebration.”   
  
“By all means,” Francis responded, warming to the vicious delight Jos took so readily fiscal domination, taking pleasure in sharing in his mercenary joy.   
  
“Tickets are entirely sold out, the exclusive Best of Denmark stream you created is more subscribed than any prior Blue Tulip offering with the exception of Hundred Year’s Whore, and the message boards are crowded with conversations regarding how to obtain the Denmark-Norway series before we lock them away in our vault,” Jos said, so clearly enjoying every word coming from his mouth that Francis had to hold back from tasting them directly from his tongue.   
  
“Naturally, my darling,” Francis murmured with a smile, “Any strategy of ours is bound to be a success.”   
  
“Scarcity of resources always creates a desirable bidding war,” Jos concurred almost cheerfully, “By taking a page from Disney’s handbook and offering the masses one last chance to own Denmark before we selectively remove the product from the market, we’ve managed to capitalize on him once more with very little investment on our end. And as you rightly convinced me, focusing the Studio’s attention on solely Denmark made him seem inherently more valuable.”   
  
“We host the New Year’s Party regardless,” Francis said, feeling his face flush under Jos’ scrutiny, “So why not drive all of Denmark’s fans into a frenzy over what they believe is their final opportunity to snap up all his exclusive merchandise?”   
  
“I particularly liked your suggestion that we sweeten the trap with the promise of never before seen footage and charge a premium for access,” Jos said with relish, “I had expected we would do well with this venture, but this has exceeded expectations. Profits are already substantial enough to offset the cost of the celebration.”   
  
Francis rose and came to stand before Jos’ legs, too elated to be so far away from Jos’ easy satisfaction, brushing his fingers lightly over the splayed hands on his knees, joining them through touch and task as he murmured, “I’m so glad we were able to make the most out of Jen’s departure. Out of the little mess I made.”   
  
Jos peered up at him, expression unreadable, though the tension in his hands eased under the lightness of Francis’ caress, answering softly, “You worry excessively.”   
  
“Perhaps you are right,” Francis said quietly, pulling his hands away so Jos would look at him instead of the slow exploration of his fingers, voice brightening when Jos returned his smile with a scowl of consternation, “We have proven remarkably resilient.”   
  
“We have,” Jos answered quietly, standing abruptly into Francis’ space, bringing them almost chest to chest and all Francis could think in that moment was how strange it was to be this close and miss the smell of smoke.   
  
“Well, my darling,” Francis said at length, after the stillness grew thick with word unspoken and desire unfulfilled, promising in all its unripened potential. Jos stepped away, leaving only the faintness of cologne in the widening gulf between them, as Francis whispered his wish for the future, “Let us hope this trend continues when we ring in the New Year.”

 

~~

The air was more than crisp as Francis made the short walk from the Studios to the cafe across the canal, providing a respite from the lingering hum of attraction from his latest tete-a-tete with Jos. His seducer’s soul whispered to him how easy it would be to have Jos above him, beneath him, inside him if he wished it while his long buried romantic heart insisted that even if he were do so such a thing, to close those inches and keep Jos from thinking for the hours they were tangled together, there was no guarantee that when rational thought returned, Jos would not leave.   
  
No, he thought as he pushed through the well-worn door of the cafe and searched for Veronika’s blond hair and pretty face, it was best to proceed as they were;  lighting countless matches of desire and interest in hopes of creating a more permanent warmth. And perhaps, he mused, spotting her across the room, seated with two cups of coffee before her, if he threaded this particular needle carefully enough, he would find the spark he had been seeking to illuminate his intentions for Jos’ suspicious eyes.   
  
“I hope you don’t mind,” Veronika said by way of greeting, proving herself as occasionally prone to economy of social nicety as her elder brother, “I ordered for you.”   
  
Francis swept into his seat, playing the flirt as he kissed her palm warmed by her cup, “Not at all. That’s very kind.”   
  
Veronika smiled, flushing charmingly as she pulled her hand away, remarking, “The coffee is quite decent here.”   
  
“Of course. It is your brother’s favorite,” Francis responded lightly, sipping at his drink as he watched the slow creep of Veronika’s brow upwards, her lips pursing in surprise over the rim of her cup.   
  
“You know his favorite cafe,” Veronika murmured, shaking her head, hair sliding over her shoulders, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”   
  
“Because you know your brother is less than his charming self when forced to drink anything that does not meet his exacting standards?” Francis said with a wink, “Honestly, my little Tulips know better than to talk to him if he’s not within reach of either cigarettes or coffee.”   
  
“Or you, I imagine,” Veronika said under her breath, smirking faintly as Francis demurred and ignored the surge of pleasure in his stomach at such a notion.   
  
He waved it off, looking away from her searching gaze, changing the subject from Jos and his collection of supposed addictions, asking, "How was your holiday, my dear? Was it merry and bright?”   
  
Veronika kindly let the obvious diversion pass, sighing happily, “Quite merry, less bright, considering the perpetual grayness of a Belgian winter. But this why we have Belgian beer to keep us entertained, no matter how much Brother protests that the Dutch do it better!”   
  
Francis laughed, envisioning a room full of Jos' family arguing about the merits of the local hops, “I trust your brother managed to stop looking so stern for some of the festivities!”   
  
Veronika smiled at him slyly, running a manicured finger over the rim of her cup, answering nonchalantly, “I dare say he enjoyed himself as much as he ever does....when he wasn’t too busy being more distracted than I’ve ever witnessed. I had wondered what it was that had him so preoccupied, why he seemed so constantly on the verge of actually expressing himself, until I came here today and found all the confirmation I needed. ”   
  
Francis smiled smugly in return, gratified to know that Jos, too, had felt the pull of absence, that he had been considering the renewal of Francis’ advances, confidence and satisfaction curling in his chest until Veronika’s happy expression dimmed, her voice suddenly cool as she continued,   
  
“I had suspected that you were the cause because I’ve only seen him so unsettled once before,” Veronika paused, holding Francis’ gaze, green eyes serious and faintly accusatory, “It was some time ago now, when Brother came to my home unannounced, spending an entire weekend smoking endlessly with an awful look of disappointed tiredness, telling me only that certain circumstances had changed and that even though he had expected it, mitigating the change was proving more difficult than he had anticipated.”   
  
Francis swallowed, remembering his own weekend spent drowning his loss and his fears, and Gilbert’s strange, but unrelenting kindness. As he smiled sadly at Veronika, he imagined his dour, stone faced darling bracing himself against the care of his sister, smoking until his throat was raw and thinking Francis had somehow found him wanting.   
  
“Disappointing him was never my intention,” Francis said softly, “And though I don’t know that either of us knew what intentions we had  when we started our little dance, I’ve always regretted that your brother believed I would tire of him. That in all likelihood he believes I still will. I walked away because I thought it would be best." He sighed and willed away his doubts, self-deprecating as he said," You see, my dear, I am very bad at thinking of the future when I am most comfortable with the instant gratification of the present.”   
  
With a long-suffering sigh, Veronika touched her hand to his wrist, voice warm once more, “Brother is also very stupid when it comes to such things. As though anyone with more than a teaspoon of emotional intelligence couldn’t tell that there was still something between you two just by looking. Once my sisterly desire to strangle you for putting that look on Jos’ face had dissipated enough for me to think clearly, it became obvious to me that you were both very, very stupid. “   
  
“How perceptive of you, my sweet,” Francis said wryly, nodding his agreement before lowering his voice to confess, “But I do wonder if perhaps your Brother would rather not see it. Perhaps he would like us both to remain in our less than blissful ignorance.”   
  
Veronika rolled her eyes and sighed, sounding almost reluctant as she said, “I doubt it. For all that he was even surlier and more distant at Christmas, this time his preoccupation was different. If I didn’t think he would deny it, I would say he seemed a little excited. At the very least, he was certainly anxious to get back to Amsterdam.”   
  
Francis felt the tension in his shoulders ease, softening with Veronika’s countenance and the assurance from another that he had not been wrong in perceiving that his slow, tentative advances were not unwelcome.   
  
“I was eager to return myself,” Francis said with a smile that was quickly and easily returned as Veronike enjoyed the secret that spun out between them, making him hesitantly more certain that if he could only convince her of the depth of his intentions, she would plead his case and be his spy.   
  
“I was eager to get away!” Veronika concurred with an exaggerated shudder.    
  
“Feeling overwhelmed by familial obligation?” Francis asked, once more sipping his coffee and easing into the lighter conversation, thoughts inadvertently wandering back down the street to his determined worker bee.   
  
“Oh, it is always nice to have a house full of family,” Veronika said with the happy honesty that so differentiated her from her inscrutable brother, “But between Jos’ restlessness and the squabbling of our Dutch and Flemish grandparents, I am glad to be done with my duty! Thank goodness it will be two more years before it is my turn to host again!”   
  
“Does Jos take his turn as well?” Francis asked idly, staring out the cafe window into the dimming evening light, the day drawing closer to the end of the year.   
  
Veronika snorted disdainfully, this time every inch a van Rijn in her tart response, “Hah. As if he could. All that space and barely any furniture. Where would we all sit? On his ugly old couch?”   
  
Francis smiled wistfully, answering without thinking, “Ah, so he still hasn’t taken my advice and done anything with that beautiful flat he owns. What a shame.”   
  
Veronika stilled, the incredulous sound of her voice dragging Francis from his hazy memories of a quiet night of softness between Jos’ sheets when she said slowly, “You’ve seen his new apartment? I thought he bought it after...circumstances changed....”   
  
“Oh,” Francis said curiously, uncertain why Veronika seemed so astonished, “I toured it with him the day he signed the contract. He said he wanted my opinion before he bought it. It was a random afternoon excursion.”   
  
Veronika stared, silent for a long moment before she started mumbling rapidly in explicit Dutch, shocking Francis with her fervency until she sighed and favored him with a very dirty look, “You total idiot.”   
  
Francis winced and held up his hands in surrender, laughing lightly as he protested his innocence, “I’m not certain why this upsets you so, my dear.”   
  
Veronika pushed a hand through her hair, glaring at him as she grumbled, “Ugh, I feel my sisterly strangulation impulses returning. Well, this certainly explains why moving him into that place was such a miserable experience when we all expected that he would be radiating with smug satisfaction at finally having achieved his lifelong goal of property ownership.”   
  
Worried, a little afraid of the glint of irritation in Veronika’s lovely eyes, Francis murmured, “I’m afraid I don’t follow...”   
  
The slap of her hand against the table rattled their cups and saucers when she exhaled deeply, explaining with forced patience, “Jos took you to see something that was very important to him, asked you for your opinion on this apartment that represented success and security in his mercenary mind, something which he did NOT ask his nearest and dearest to do I might add. Random afternoon excursion, my foot! And you claim you don’t understand why I am still contemplating strangulation.”   
  
Francis shrank in his seat, feeling very much the fool, mumbling sheepishly, “We have a long history of missing each others most important points, your brother and I.”   
  
“I’ll say,” Veronika sniffed, smoothing out her hair, calming once more.   
  
“In my very dubious defense, I did offer to help him decorate.” Francis said with feeble humor, thinking of Jos’ empty home and wasted space and stupidly lost chances, before continuing with low sincerity, “I still would, if he gave me the chance.”   
  
Veronika stared at him for a long, still moment, her expression as placid and considering as Jos at his negotiating best, finally smiling softly and sighing, “Well, you do seem to have good taste. God knows, Brother needs all the help he can get.”   
  
Francis held his hand across the table, taking Veronika’s small fingers between his own, kissing them once more, silently promising to do his best to be worthy of her second chance, remaining bent over the table, peering up as Veronika mused,   
  
“But, listen, Francis, I think perhaps you will need to make some of those chances. Brother is a cautious man, and for all that his walls still remain bare, I think you will need to make it clear that you would like to be invited over, so to speak.”   
  
Francis straightened, heart and mind racing, murmuring, “Yes, I suppose that somehow I must show him how very much I want to dance with him and him alone. And then see if he will ask.”   
  
Veronika laced their fingers together, squeezing once as Francis gave her a forlorn look and asked, “Any suggestions, my dove?”   
  
“I think you should know best how to capture his attention,” Veronika said dryly, “Since he seems to find you interesting to the point of distraction.”   
  
Francis smiled and answered with unbidden, untouched affection, “The feeling is mutual. Your brother is the most interesting man I have ever met.”   
  
Veronika released his hand and laughed brightly, looking at him fondly as she stood, “That surly, ill-tempered creature? I shall have to take your word for it,” she paused, kissing Francis’ cheek, whispering, “But then again, I suppose being in love will make you think the most ridiculous things.”   
  
Francis startled out of her embrace, shocked by her words, mouth agape and cheeks flushing in a way he thought he had forgotten a thousand trysts ago, heart and mind ringing with the truth in Veronika’s easy assumption.   
  
What a thing to have overlooked, Francis thought wildly, tamping down the urge to laugh madly until Veronika took it back.   
  
“Oh!” Veronika giggled, touching her hand to the blush on his face, shaking her head and damning him sweetly, “That hasn’t occurred to you either? My, you really are perfect for one another.”   
  
~~~~~   
Five minutes to midnight and Francis let the crowd push him across the dance floor, smiling blithely at the hands that brushed over his skin, murmuring thanks to the shouted well wishes and offers of sexual gratification, slowly but surely winding his way towards the stage to join all the lovely flowers of his beloved garden for the final countdown.   
  
The energy beneath his skin hummed with the rapid beating of his heart, which he thought had not slowed since Veronika left him sitting stunned in Jos’ favorite cafe, suddenly in need of a much stiffer beverage followed by a brisk walk along the canal, forgoing a return to the Studio and Jos’ prying eyes to spend time pacing the floors of his home as he debated what, exactly, one wore when making a public declaration of affection.   
  
As he approached the platform, surrounded by images of Denmark, so much Denmark he thought he could now go at least two weeks without another glimpse of Jens’ bare skin, Francis enjoyed the reckless, anxious, happiness that whispered in his mind assuring him that this was the gamble to take, promising him that he could last through the uncertainty, through Jos’ reticence and caution, that this time it was better to choose hope rather than fear.   
  
At three minutes to midnight, he finally managed to shake off the last of his admirers and climb the stairs to the stage, meeting Jos’ heavy, veiled gaze for the first time all evening, at last giving his attention to the one person in the room who it seemed would not ask for it when Francis was awash in a sea of empty admiration and adulation. Francis smiled at him and held his hands over his head as if to say that all of this, the commotion of revellers on the dance floor, the money in the till, and the excited employees drunk on liquor and youth, all of this belonged to them. Jos smirked, low and dark, raising his half empty glass of champagne in toast, joining him as faithfully as ever in the celebration of riches and shared success.   
  
Francis progressed through the knot of his Tulips as the clock ticked  closer to 2013, knowing Jos was watching him, wanting those too cold and quiet eyes to observe each step he took, every kiss he gave, hoping this time he would understand.   
  
He smiled at the couples enveloped in one another, brushing his hand over Feliciano’s shoulders as he nuzzled into Ludwig’s stiff neck, feeling vaguely impressed with the fervency of the kiss Feliks was bestowing upon his Lithuanian lover, happy in their happiness. And when he saw Berwald flush under the neon lights as his cute young man tugged him down into a sweet embrace, Francis knew he had been right to protest Jos’ policy of no significant others at company affairs, telling his too-practical darling that everyone had the right to kiss the one they loved at midnight.   
  
Francis offered his cheek to Antonio, who looked at him with surprise until Francis’ gaze tracked inevitably back to the man at the end of the stage, still and watchful. He pressed his lips to Alfred’s warm, smiling face, laughing into the enthusiasm of his sudden, irrepressible hug. To Heracles, Sadiq, and Eduard, there were handshakes and quick exchanges of goodwill.   
  
And as the crowd began to countdown the final seconds of the year, Francis paused at Eirik’s side, smiling knowingly at his lovely Norwegian’s pale face and that rare wicked expression of pleasure as he snapped pictures on his phone of the projected scene Francis had handpicked for the midnight celebration: Denmark and Norway intertwined on a bed, wholly lost in a kiss.   
  
Francis touched his lips to Norway’s smooth cheek, murmuring in his ear as the seconds fell to thirty, “For Jens, I take it?”   
  
Norway smiled, eyes distant but filled with secret mirth, answering blandly, “So?”   
  
Francis laughed, his own gaze on Jos’ inscrutable face as he said, “That is either very cruel or very romantic.”   
  
Eirik surprised him, kissing his cheek, mouth sliding near enough to his ear so Francis could hear his response, “Why can’t it be both?”   
  
Francis turned on his heel still laughing, wondering how it was they could each be so changed as they stood on the precipice of a new year, feeling Eirik’s unsettled happiness still beneath his fingers as he left him behind, focusing solely on Jos and the wish he held between his lips.   
  
And as the clock changed from 11:59 to 12:00 and the calendar from 2012 to 2013, Francis promised them both something more as he pushed against Jos, closing the last centimeters between their bodies as the crowd cheered and their world started anew once again. With careful hands and a smile, he held Jos’ conflicted, wary gaze as he kissed each cheek, feeling the slow exhale of breath against his neck and the thrum of a racing pulse under the caress of his thumb.   
  
He closed his eyes for a moment as they stood pressed cheek to cheek, quiet and still in the midst of chaotic, happy celebration, before pulling away just far enough to meet the fleeting wide open question in Jos’ eyes, murmuring, “Happy New Year, my darling,” as he kissed Jos with a gentleness long abandoned, wanting desperately to answer the unspoken ask.   
  
For a brief, wonderful moment, Jos’ lips softened against his, welcoming and warm, erasing the bitterness of their last, broken embrace, until the barely there pressure was gone once more and that remained was the heated, reluctant desire in Jos’ eyes before he turned away and descended the stairs.   
  
Francis smiled and touched a satisfied finger to his lips, content that the gauntlet had been thrown, understanding at last that something as simple as a kiss could be enough to ready one for the longest of sieges. Emboldened and unleashed, Francis called out for a glass of champagne, knowing such a victory was worth more than a toast.

 

 

 


	6. Jens

**Sent: December 18, 2012 @ 8:23am  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject:**   
  
_Idiot Jens,  
  
I am not sure why I am sending this message, since I can only imagine that you are somewhere between Santorini and Mykonos getting felt up by overly manicured and bored Americans, but Berwald grunted at me to tell you hello when we left the Studio for the holidays.  
  
So, Berwald says hello. Even though I told him that you were as out of touch for me as for him, he glared at me with a very impertinent smirk until I agreed to write to you.  
  
(I am not sure I approve of the Finnish influence. Berwald now smiles at me. Its disconcerting. You, no doubt, think the whole thing is romantic because I know that is how your deluded little mind works. I would tell you not to harbor such delusions as regards me, but you are as stubborn as you are deluded, so I leave you to your daydreams).  
  
At any rate, I am waiting for my taxi to arrive to take me to the airport, where I will catch an early flight to Hong Kong. I’ll return on December 29th, which will make this both the longest vacation I have ever taken and also the longest uninterrupted time I’ve spent with Aron since I was 18, not to mention the first Christmas since he left for university and I came to Amsterdam.  
  
With any luck, we will both survive the exposure and live to make something pleasant out of our holidays. We have very few traditions, so I do not think that passing the day together in Hong Kong will be much different from those few spare years of celebrations in what passed for an apartment in Oslo.  
  
I suppose your family in Denmark may regret your absence. As would any gathering lacking its usual jester. I hope that you have found people as ridiculous as your former colleagues to take you in and tolerate you for Christmas. I would not want to think of your limitless good cheer being wasted on the open seas the one time of year such idiotic joviality is appropriate.  
  
Well.  
  
A very long flight awaits. I do not know when I shall write again, particularly as I will have no cause to do so without Berwald’s foolish interference...but I hope you are well, wherever you may be.  
  
~Eirik_   
  
**Sent: December 24, 2012 @ 11:49pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: Glaedelig Jul**   
  
_Jens,  
  
It would seem that internet on the high seas must be rather unreliable. But as you requested this as your Christmas gift, it would be churlish of me not to write just because you have not had the courtesy to do yourself.  
  
Hong Kong has been interesting. My younger brother takes perverse delight in dragging me from corner to corner of the city without actually showing me a single place that he actually frequents. I suspect he wishes to keep secrets, which would be cute if he weren’t so successful at it. Little does he know that I am even better. Given enough time and judicious application of guilt, I am certain I can ascertain the identity of the mystery lover he thinks I haven’t already determined is the reason for our ambitious schedule that keeps us out of his dormitory all hours of the day. And if he won’t tell me, I shall resort to other methods of discover.  
  
I have four more days and no one stays away forever. Especially not when they wish to be with their lover on Christmas. I promise that I shall be able to tell you for whom it is Aron thinks is worth thwarting his big brother by New Year’s Day.  
  
For all that he is a secret-keeping, ungrateful sibling, Aron fits in here very well. I think perhaps his happiness should not have come as a surprise....and yet the realization that he will not be coming “home” has been unsettling.  
  
Why I am telling you this, I don’t know. But there is no one else here and Aron’s ego hardly needs the boost.  
  
Merry Christmas.  
  
May it be merry and bright.  
  
~Eirik_   
  
~~~   
  
_Athens, Greece_   
  
As soon as the boat was tied to the dock and Cy had rolled his eyes and sent him on his way, Jens was rushing through the streets of Athens with his phone in hand, likely looking very much the idiot Eirik believed him to be as he searched in vain for wi-fi, feeling almost manic with the need to check his email right then and fucking there. For days, he’d been feeling damned near driven to distraction with the approach of the holidays and the embarrassing realization that not that he was homesick but he was also going through Eirik-email withdrawal. He’d been so sure he could outlast the previously impressive ten days he’d gone without his dose of Eirik’s special affection, but as it turned out, he’d gotten used to coming home to Eirik’s dry and endearing accounts of his day.   
  
The first week out to sea had been like a dream, all blue skies and azure ocean, and he’d felt damned lucky to have found another job that gave him almost as much pleasure as his first while he smiled and ducked the advances of his passengers, steered the yacht, and daydreamed about how gorgeous Eirik would have looked stretched on on the deck, like some kind of sexy water nymph. Those first days, cut-off from the only connection Eirik permitted, he’d been buoyed by the hints of warmth in Eirik’s messages, the tiny little details that made the distance between them seem somehow smaller, and he indulged in the wishful belief that Eirik was reaching towards him, little by little, day by day.   
  
And though he hated not being able to see the disapproving cut of Eirik’s frown when Jens spoke too loud or too much, hated that he was running like a total moron towards Cy’s place and his inbox because he didn’t think he could stand not knowing if Eirik had missed him like he missed Eirik for the ten minutes it would have taken for Cy to finish locking down the boat and walk home with him, Jens knew that this shitty giving Eirik space and time deal was the right one to have made.   
  
If he’d been anywhere near Eirik feeling the kind of butterflies he got every time Eirik let something personal slip, every time he got even the vaguest confirmation of his suspicion that Eirik had never been anywhere indifferent about him...he never would have been able to leave Eirik alone long enough to let those feelings breathe. And Eirik, in all his adorable contrariness, would have pulled ever faster and further away, and they’d be even farther apart than now, with a couple thousand kilometers between his hands and the perfect curve of Eirik’s ass.   
  
That said, with all the good intentions and resolve in the world, by the second week, Jens had grown bored with the bottle blonds and their wandering hands, and though sailing in such a goddamned pretty ship could never get old, Jens could feel his the shine of his smile wearing away while his thoughts drifted inevitably to Eirik and whether or not Eirik might decide that he preferred fourteen days of silence and send Jens and his poor, romantic emails to the trash folder.   
  
(Not that he’d give up, of course, it was just a hell of a lot easier to deal with his impatience and the doubts he’d never, ever speak aloud for fear of jinxing the whole damned thing, when he could remember that there was so much more to Eirik’s maybe and write to me because Eirik was writing back and letting him see all the details of Eirik’s life of which Jens had been too busy trying to make about him to really appreciate.)   
  
His distraction got so bad that Cy was forced to corner him and give him a stern lecture, reminding him for a moment of Berwald when he put on his bro-face and tried to grumble sense into Jens. Eventually, over shots of ouzo, Jens had coughed up the whole sad story, knowing Cy to be a true friend when he declined the opportunity to mock and instead promised that if Jens would split the cost, they could wire the boat for wi-fi during the dry-docked week between Christmas and New Year’s if it would keep Jens from mooning around the place and upsetting the wealthy cougars.   
  
But now it was still only the early hours of Christmas morning and though he should have been exhausted and thinking of how much sleep he could squeeze in before being schlepped over to Cy’s mamma’s house for dinner, all Jens’ not insubstantial energy was focused on the single, solitary task of being reunited with Eirik.   
  
Or, well, he thought with a wild smile and burst of optimism, with his emails--if his surly little ice prince had actually missed him enough to write.   
  
And there, in the blessed quiet of Cy’s still dark and slightly musty living room, Jens got his Christmas present. Not one, but two, emails from Eirik calling to him bold and unread in his inbox, making his face fucking hurt with the wideness of his smile when saw that Eirik had wished him ‘Merry Christmas’ in Danish (a language he’d once blithely referred to as a poor man’s Norwegian).   
  
Eirik had been thinking of him, Jens thought gleefully, chasing away the guilt he felt for overlooking the countless other messages of goodwill and cheer from friends and family just so he could move his finger over the track-pad of his old college laptop and bask in the subtlety of Eirik’s attentions, so different from his own irrepressible feelings.   
  
By the time he finished re-reading the second email, the one from only hours before, there was no way in hell Jens could repress the awful, overwhelming need to hold Eirik right fucking now.   
  
He wanted to hold him because it was Christmas and because even Eirik seemed to know that what a bitch it was to be separated from the one you loved on such a day.   
  
(If only he could apply such logic to his Dane as he did to his brother and his mystery paramour, Jens thought wistfully, forever amused by Eirik’s ability to read all hidden feelings but his own. But then again, he had always liked that Eirik was as stubborn as he was, even if it made convincing him of the awesomeness that was *them* ten times for difficult.)   
  
He wanted to hold Eirik because Eirik had been worried he’d be lonely on Christmas and Jens had sometimes wondered if behind that blank stare and cold demeanor Eirik was lonely all the time and he’d always wanted Eirik to say to yes to half of anything he offered so he could be the company Eirik kept.   
  
(He wanted to kiss Eirik until he didn’t feel jealous of Berwald and his creepy smiles and his ability to not only talk to Eirik whenever he damned well pleased but also to somehow get the man to agree to do his bidding. It was fucking unfair, Jens thought, Eirik playing Nordic favorites like that.)   
  
He wanted to hold him and distract him from the inevitable ache of a brother growing up and growing apart with hands, lips, tongues and words of reassurance that Eirik would scoff and say he didn’t need while letting Jens keep talking anyway.   
  
But mostly, he wanted to have Eirik, all his protestations, and those little flashes of vulnerability that had captured his attention from the first time Eirik walked into the Blue Tulip and sized him up with a single, scathing glance, in his arms because he really fucking missed him.   
  
He looked up when Cy came in, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at his admittedly pathetic state, sprawled over the ratty couch with his face nearly pressed against the keyboard, the house still entirely dark because he hadn’t even bothered to turn on the lights.   
  
“Why don’t you just call him?” Cy asked dryly, far too reasonable for this early in the morning, though Jens couldn’t deny that the idea hadn’t been tempting him every single day since he’d left Amsterdam.   
  
“Because he told me to write to him and Norge gets kind of cranky when I don’t follow his instructions,” Jens groaned, flopping over with frustrated fondness for his prickly pear, “So if I call him and he doesn’t want to talk or thinks I’m taking a mile out of his inch or whatever, he might stop emailing.”   
  
“If he knew how lame you were, he’d also probably stop emailing,” Cy said with a heavy yawn, “For god’s sake, it  _is_ Christmas. I think you can get away with a phone call. And if he gets weird, just use the holiday as an excuse.”   
  
Jens blinked twice, letting the wisdom of Cy’s suggestion filter through his tired mind until the brilliance and the possibility propelled him into action.   
  
“I love you, man,” Jens enthused, wondering if too many days at sea had somehow waterlogged his brain or if it was lack of sleep and good sex that was causing him to overlook such golden opportunities.   
  
“Whatever,” Cy said with an exhausted smile as he started to wander towards his bedroom, “Just love me and him quietly, alright? I’m going to bed before we brave family dinner.”   
  
Jens thanked Cy with a sunny grin and his trademark thumbs-up that had been sadly lacking in appearances over the last seven days, charging ahead with his undoubtedly brilliant plan before he question its intelligence, seeking out “Hot Lunch Date” in his contact list and dialing. (Feliks had wisely recommended to him that he change Eirik’s contact name just in case he got the wise idea to drunk dial while they were apart).   
  
He felt as nervous as he did when waiting for the crack of the starting gun, gripping the phone like he’d done to the oars as his call rang, tinny and taunting over the distance.   
  
“Hello?” A cool voice answered, sounding not quite as Jens had remembered.   
  
“Eirik?” He started hesitantly, only to hastily add, “Don’t hang up,” when the person on the other end snorted.   
  
“Oh? Does Brother do that often?” The now-obviously not-Eirik replied with even more obvious amusement.   
  
Jens smirked, hedging his bets as he squashed the disappointment that Eirik hadn’t answered his phone, “Aron?”   
  
“Indeed,” Aron answered blandly, “And you must be Idiot Jens.”   
  
“Got it in one,” Jens said cheerfully, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling as he “met” Eirik’s precious brother for the first time, “How did you guess?”   
  
“It showed on the caller ID,” Aron informed him gleefully, clearly mistaking Jens’ huff of fondness for offense as he continued with that faux-mockery of which Eirik regularly partook, “Don’t worry, that’s how he shows affection.”   
  
“I’m not worried,” Jens retorted smugly, “I’ve always thought it was cute that he has a pet name for me.”   
  
“Wouldn’t you prefer something a little softer?”   
  
Jens laughed lightly, trying to imagine Eirik fluttering his eyelashes at him and calling him darling or sweetheart, “Eh, makes for a nice fantasy. But I’ll take your brother as he is, foul temper, sharp edges and all.”   
  
“You really are an idiot,” Aron told him, not unkindly.   
  
“Suppose so,” Jens said easily, before taking up his original charge once more, “So....not that its not nice to meet you like this or I’m not enjoying your company...but where is Eirik?”   
  
Aron hummed and lowered his voice, “Brother is sleeping, or at least pretending to, it can be hard to tell with him sometimes.”   
  
“Shit, what time is it there? I didn’t even think about that!” Jens cursed himself for a fool and looked at the digital clock, trying to do a quick calculation of the time difference, only to have Aron interrupt him with brisk reassurances.   
  
“Don’t worry, its already 10am.”   
  
“And Eirik is still sleeping?” Jens asked, a little tickled by the thought of Eirik being so surprisingly lazy, “Is he always such a layabout?”   
  
Aron laughed dryly, explaining quietly, “Not normally, no. But Brother’s always insisted that Christmas is the one day a year that he’s allowed to sleep, eat, and drink as much as he pleases and there will be no comment from little brothers who should spend less time criticizing and more time being grateful.”   
  
Jens smiled at Aron’s impressive impression of his elder brother, warmed by this unexpected glimpse into the domesticity of Eirik’s hidden life, murmuring, “That’s adorable. I had no idea.”   
  
Aron must have caught the wistfulness in his tone at being so constantly on the outside looking in, pushing at Eirik’s walls, as he offered Jens another gift wrapped in the siblings’ characteristic barbed wire, “Don’t pout. You’re more of an idiot than I thought if you don’t realize the significance of what you've already been given. Eirik doesn’t tell anyone  _anything_ . But you....not only do you actually know of my existence, which is unusual in and of itself, but you know he is here, with me, and what’s he’s been doing.”   
  
“I also know that he thinks you’ve got a clandestine lover,” Jens said brightly, more cheered by Aron’s unspoken vote of confidence than the time he drank an entire bottle of akvavit.   
  
“Wonderful,” Aron groused darkly, “Now he’s sharing my secrets as well. I’m not sure I approve.”   
  
“Sorry, kiddo,” Jens said without a hint of apology, feeling like and Eirik were now comrades in brother-baiting arms.   
  
“So annoying,” Aron grumbled and Jens could almost hear the roll of his eyes before his voice flattened once more, “Well, do you want me to wake him?”   
  
“Eh, I don’t know,” Jens prevaricated, wanting desperately to talk to Eirik but also wanting to let him have his Christmas laziness go uninterrupted, “Maybe I should just let him sleep?”   
  
“No, I think I shall wake him,” Aron said with a hint of malice that had Jens suddenly worried that perhaps Eirik was a terrible morning person and this was his brother’s way of getting back at them both for the secret-lover taunt, “He may complain, but at least it will save my computer from being assaulted every thirty minutes by his dirty looks when he’s received no new emails.”   
  
"Please feel free to tell him I told you that," Aron said richly, earning Jens' amusement and approbation for his willingness to sell out his brother's attempts to appear disinterested as he imagined how intensely Eirik would refute such a thing ever happening.    
  
Jens attempted not to crow with delight, only to have those good intentions crumbled into happy, happy dust when he overheard Eirik’s long missed voice, his sleep soaked and gorgeous mumble of  _“Jens?”_  in answer to Aron’s wake-up call of  _“Wakey, wakey. Your boyfriend’s on the phone.”_   
  
Merry Christmas indeed, he thought with wild pleasure before he remembered that there was no way he could actually call Eirik on his sleepy little admission without being denied the title for the rest of his natural born life.   
  
“Jens?” Eirik asked again, low and rough, exactly the way Jens had always imagined he’d sound if they ever did wake up in bed together, flooding his senses with desire and yearning.   
  
“Hey,” Jens said softly, not wanting rouse Eirik so much he lost that sleepy thread of warmth, “Merry Christmas.”   
  
“Is it? For you?” Eirik answered softly, yawning over the sound of the sheets rustling.   
  
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Jens whispered, pressing closer to the phone and closing his eyes and listening, wondering if Eirik had fallen back asleep in the lingering silence before he spoke again, "I'm off the boat, I've got a Greek mama dying to stuff me full of food, and a hot guy talking to me on the phone."   
  
“Good,” Eirik mumbled, voice a little muffled and distant as he teased, “Merry Christmas, then. Did Santa bring you something nice?”   
  
Jens laughed a little, touched by Eirik’s minimalistic take on expressing both concern and cheer, joking, “A tan.”   
  
“Sounds nice,” Eirik mumbled and Jens wondered if he was always like this when just waking up, softened by sleep and not yet awake enough for self-censure.   
  
“I'll send you some pictures. Its not half-bad. One of the perks of the job, I guess!” Jens answered with mellowed happiness, already envisioning how it would be to discover Eirik’s hidden gentleness when they were tangled under the covers, groaning about the insistence of the alarm clock while he let Eirik badger him into staying asleep for ten more minutes.   
  
“Golden skin and inappropriate Americans,” Eirik replied with low amusement, “A fool’s paradise.”   
  
“Hey, now,” Jens teased with a yawn, feeling the long days of the trip and the lateness of the hour catch-up with him, pulled towards his own need for sleep by the secrets sounds of Eirik in bed, “I think I recall there being no shortage of tanned skin at the Tulip. And I’m pretty sure you’ve got your own inappropriate American.”   
  
“Point,” Eirik acknowledged coolly, “Though we’re meant to be a hands-on organization.”   
  
“I remember that, too,” Jens said with a sigh, knowing that the return of Eirik’s wit signaled that his time with the softer-side of Norge was almost up, letting the conversation fall quiet as he tried not to think of how long it had been since he’d gotten his hands on any part of Eirik.   
  
The line went quiet and he closed his eyes and smiled while listening to Eirik shuffle and shift, probably throwing back the covers and leaving his Christmas indulgence for another year. He wondered if by the next December he could figure out a way insinuate himself into those lazy arms for a joint layabout.    
  
“I should go,” Eirik said at length, “If you read my correspondence, you know I’ve important matters to attend to today.”   
  
Jens laughed, conspiring, “Ah, of course, the great hunt for little Aron’s secret significant other.”   
  
“Its cute that he thinks he can keep such things from me,” Eirik replied smugly and Jens wished he could kiss him, settling instead for telling him warmly,   
  
“I think its cute that you’re worried about your brother.”   
  
“Idiot, I’m not worried. I’m curious.” Eirik said in much the same tone of _“me-thinks-he doth-protest-too-much”_  voice he used every-time he told Jens to fuck-off.   
  
“Uh-huh,” Jens teased, imagining the hot flush of denial on Eirik’s pretty cheeks, “Well, I think its cute that you’re so curious then. I can’t wait to hear what my favorite 007 discovers.”   
  
“Hmph,” Eirik scoffed, “And why would I tell you?”   
  
Jens smiled, “Because in your email you promised me you’d reveal the secret identity before the year was up,” he paused, taking a breath, “So, uh, maybe you could call me sometime and give me the scoop?”   
  
Eirik sighed as though Jens had just asked him to commit to the labors of Heracles, always so charmingly dramatic before he acquiesced, “I’ll be enduring your face on New Year’s anyway, so I suppose that could be arranged.”   
  
“I’d like that,” Jens said happily, “I’d like it even more if it was the real me and not Denmark-me ringing in 2013 with you, but I’ll take what I can get.”   
  
“You do that,” Eirik replied softly, with something that sounded dangerously like affection, before his voice went cool and clipped once more, “And now I have to go. Things to do, brothers to thwart. Merriment to be had.”   
  
“Hey,” Jens said quickly before Eirik could hang-up the phone. knowing there was something he still need to say, even if he was certain Eirik still didn’t want to hear it, because it was Christmas and even if he wouldn’t get the gift of a response, he still wanted Eirik to know it.   
  
“What?” Eirik demanded impatiently.   
  
“Merry Christmas, Eirik. And I,” Jens started, only to be interrupted by Eirik’s constant need to cut-off anything that veered out of his comfort zone.   
  
“You’ve already covered that, idiot, so unless you have...”   
  
Jens stole the thread back, refusing to let Eirik have his way this time, smiling as he finished his declaration, “And I love you.”   
  
To his surprise, there was no answering dial-tone, just a long stretch of silence before Eirik finally said quietly, “I believe that’s already been covered as well.”   
  
“It bears repeating,” Jens replied softly, heartened by Eirik’s unexpected reaction, feeling closer to him in that moment than when they’d been naked and mixed-up in one another.   
  
There was another second of hesitation before Eirik sighed and hung-up with phone without another word, leaving Jens to smile as he thought about promises and revelations and small victories, pulling the abandoned laptop near once more, not quite ready for forsake Eirik for sleep.   
  
  
  
**Sent: December 25, 2012 @ 4:10am  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: God Jul**   
  
_Norge-  
  
I probably shouldn’t tell you this because you’ll decide to stop doing whatever you think is responsible for me saying so....  
  
But you make me so happy.  
  
Enjoy the rest of your trip! Try not to scare Aron’s little friend too much. Just enough so they’ll know that if they hurt him, there will be Nordic hell to pay.  
  
And in a week, think of me at midnight :D  
  
Love,  
Jens  
  
ps--I think of you everyday._


	7. Jos

2013 came to him without a hangover but with no shortage of questions and deliberations that were enough to contribute to the headache that threatened to disrupt the quiet of his morning. Veronika had made him coffee and served him a waffle with a too innocent smile and an inquiring gaze that didn’t merit a response before leaving him to ruminate over the events of the past twenty-four hours with a sigh that promised he had not escaped her sisterly smothering forever. The newspaper proved unsatisfactory as a distraction from the nagging concerns that had kept him awake well after midnight had passed and he had left Francis and the rest of the crew standing under a sea of falling glitter, as did the morning news report on the television and the incoming emails on his Blackberry. With his acquiescence to Veronika’s smoking ban (why he had agreed to do so even within the confines of his own home was also something that valued examination at a later date when he did not have a much longer and more immediate list of concerns), he couldn’t soothe the irritation with the familiar feeling of smoke filling his lungs and calming his thoughts into something measurable and quantifiable.   
  
And so, even though it was a holiday and he was certain to be subjected to Veronika’s disapproval, Jos knew there was no other solution to his litany of current complaints than to slip out of the quietness of his kitchen and onto the Amsterdam streets and make his way through the detritus of the New Year’s celebration towards the solitude of the Blue Tulip. From the shape of her frown and the fondness of the dry kiss she had pressed to his cheek as he left for the day, Jos knew that Veronika assumed that his thoughts were primarily preoccupied by concerns of a personal nature, concerns that he did not wish to have dissected by a sister who cared more than was practical. He also suspected that she believed he escaped from his home (and her) with the intention of smoking until his throat was scratched raw and he’d managed to quell that particular craving for the remaining days of her visit.   
  
And while he did intend to smoke, fingers already caressing the pack of much missed cigarettes in his pocket as he walked through the still quiet streets between his apartment and the Studios, Veronika was incorrect in her assumption that he had no plans beyond nicotine and avoiding sibling scrutiny. While the last seconds of 2012 had perhaps been enough to give him momentary pause, what he had observed before Francis came to him with his New Year’s wishes and lips that tasted of liquor instead of the remembered taste of wine and smoke had been more than enough to justify this time spent with his computer and the Blue Tulip balance books.   
  
He left the lights off as he walked down the halls, closing the door to his office to allow the silence of the Studios and the first drag of smoke to curl around him like armor, with only the sound of his computer and his own steady, sure exhalations to keep him company as he began to work. Even though the data was raw and unrefined, it pleased Jos to know that they would be starting the New Year on such a positive note, with the profits from the previous night continuing the trend of the Tulip’s black line of profit and stability. It was this encouraging and gratifying sea of black splashed against the context of the less predictable but no less important behaviors that had Jos mulling over the shape of the Tulip’s future as he considered the ebb and flow of human capital.   
  
He clicked through the spreadsheets from the previous quarters, taking refuge in numbers that could not dissemble and certainly never had ulterior motives that seemed always to present themselves at the most inconvenient times, such as when he wished to allocate his time and attention to weighing the future direction of the company and not the unsettling renewal of possessive forms of personal address from other members of upper management. Within the ordered rows and graphs that were his domain, he rarely encountered a sudden return on an investment he had relegated to the loss column, upsetting his careful calculations and future projections.   
  
It was better, he knew, to focus on actuals, on data that was reliable and consistent and offered him the clearest path forward. for all that he could not deny the irritating burn of curiosity and desire that lingered each time Francis forced his way into his office in the late evenings and smiled at him in a way he’d believed better filed away and forgotten. But Francis was woven into each even, neat line of numbers, an integral (if illusive) factor in any hypothesis he might he wish to consider and so he could not avoid thoughts of him, even if he would rather not be so recently reminded of how they used to come to a mutual consensus when it came to matters of company policy.   
  
_(It didn't help that the office had only ever been this still and abandoned one time before, not long after New York, when it had become clear that they had reached a critical mass of staff, infrastructure, and enough of a mess that he could no longer abide the boxes and boxes of files and film that Francis had tossed without care into an empty closet when they had first moved in, promising him that he would arrange it all as soon as he had a free moment. Jos had implied that if Francis did not find a free moment during that long holiday weekend, he would suddenly find his costuming budget considerably curtailed, only to find himself stuck assisting in the project after Francis insinuated that he would use an entirely inappropriate and inefficient filing system.  
  
The halls and sound-stage had been empty and Francis had pouted at him and gestured at the sunshine pouring through the windows of their offices, making not subtle overtures as to what he might consider a fair exchange if Jos had postponed their organization expedition for an hour until it became clear that Jos intended be implacable, if only because it amused him to see Francis thwarted and casting about for other games to play. For a time, he’d lost himself in the process, half-aware of Francis’ quiet movements beside him as they sorted and lifted and put away all the trappings of a past that had built this present, sparing the occasional approving glance for the effort Francis was making to catch his eye each time he bent down or stretched on his toes. But it hadn’t been until hours later, when the sun had started to dip and Francis was caught in the shadows of the room, rummaging lazily through the last box of documents with his hair mussed and falling loose, shirt wrinkled and untucked, that he had given into his distraction.  
  
He hadn’t been able to stop the huff of derisive laughter when Francis broke the pleasant quiet with a sudden yelp of pain and a string of hurried French cursing the paper that had cut his finger. Francis had glared at him over the dangerous play of amusement in his lips, telling him that it had hurt and perhaps Jos should not be such a slave driver or Francis would be forced to file for worker’s compensation. And when Francis had come near, smelling of his cigarette smoke, and pushed the tiny, ridiculous cut on his finger against Jos’ lips and said he would accept other forms of compensation so as to avoid any more paperwork, he’d taken it into his mouth and bit down on the tip, tasting salt and dust as he watched Francis’ gaze go heavy with victorious satisfaction while his body fell knowingly into the parting of Jos' arms.)_   
  
Jos stood abruptly, discarding thoughts of the past that had no place in the waking hours when he had concerns in the here and now, regardless of how Francis whispered to him even when he wasn’t there, narrowing the space between the walls with his insinuations and the strange new warmth and hesitancy in the shape of his flirtation. Though wishing never had any use beyond the pages of fairy tales, if Jos could have made it so Francis would have gotten bored or curious or desirous any time but now, when he needed to speak to the man without the word darling or the slow burn of casual touch.   
  
If last night had convinced him of anything, it was that he was out of time with his deliberations when it came to ensuring the long-term viability and expansive of the Tulip. While profits were at a high and subscriptions continued to amass, Jos could not ignore the facts before him, facts that had made themselves all too clear at ten minutes til midnight the evening before. He could not look at Berwald and Tino and not suspect that Berwald’s loyalty would slowly shift from the professional to the personal. He knew without question that the silent Norwegian was only biding his time until his familial duty had been fulfilled. And he had always trusted in Francis’ belief that Alfred was too much of a free and determined personality to be confined once his confidence had matured. It was only a matter of a few years before the first bloom had faded and it was necessary to turn over the garden and make way for new talent.   
  
But such turn over was best managed in stages and Jos knew that while this current growth could not be sustained forever, all his fiscal projections and cautious interpersonal assumptions indicated that the Blue Tulip had a brief window of time in which the conditions were ripe for expansion into a new market that would carry the company through the inevitable changing of the Amsterdam guard. He’d run the numbers by Kiku and turned the possibility over and over in his head over the Christmas holiday before coming to the conclusion that this was the right risk to take if he wanted to make his furthest reaching goals a reality. It was only when he stopped to consider the outlier in all his data that he could not be certain that his gamble would be pay off. Even now he puzzled how and when to broach the subject with Francis, uncertain to what extent and for how long Francis would wish to commit to the company, as in the dark as ever as to the exact nature of Francis future plans.   
  
To be certain, Jos wanted Francis to say yes to his proposal, to give Jos and the Tulip his talents and his sharp mind, and go with him as they took the world by storm. And, yet, he preferred it without the distraction of meetings that lingered too long on words unspoken and without the questions and doubts that nagged at him when Francis finally left him alone in his office without taking the next step in a once too familiar dance. The time he had to strike while the iron was hot with their business was too short for Francis’ asking eyes and honeyed voice, and so it was of no value to indulge in meaningless wishes that Francis had smoked one of his cigarettes so the experience had not been so jarring when Francis kissed him for the first time since it had all gone predictably awry.   
  
It would not do to waste any more time on prevarication or any more evenings spent needlessly late in his office when he and Francis had more between them than whatever had sparked Francis’ renewed and cursory interest. He had the evidence he needed to make his pitch to Francis, to broach the subject of the Blue Tulip’s future. Other matters would resolved in time, if he simply let Francis play long enough to reveal his game, and he could choose then what response would best mitigate his frustration and temper any reckless desire. Resolved on this course of action and tired of ignoring his sister’s increasingly annoyed messages requesting that he stop brooding in his office, Jos turned off the lights with the assurance that there was nothing more to do but wait until they were both back at work and free from the threat of midnight.   
  
~~~~   
Unfortunately, as with almost all plans that involved Francis Bonnefoy, Jos was quickly derailed first thing on Monday morning by Francis’ rushed email apology in response to his request for a meeting, suggesting instead that they discuss Jos’ concerns over dinner. Which is how he found himself settled into a quiet corner table, watching Francis’ brow furrow and his finger tap against his chin while Jos went over the numbers, feeling his irritation at being out of his comfort zone bleed away in the face of Francis’ shrewd appreciation of the data. In the back of his mind, beneath the constant flow of information, a soft voice that sounded far too much like his sister whispered to him that it was only right that he make this pitch just as he had made the very first all those years ago when Francis had simpered and smiled at him from across a table and warmed to every offer Jos made.   
  
Just when he was ready to launch into his final overture and answer Francis’ question as to why they were examining so many lovely spreadsheets on a Monday evening, the waiter interrupted to ask what they would like to drink and Francis’ attention was lost to the wine list and and the flirting that came as naturally to him as breathing. Jos wondered if Francis was as aware as he professed of how he could not but smile and soften in the wake of open appreciation, if he knew how easily he slipped into the guise that would make the benefactor of his heady and undeniable allure smile back and bend to Francis’ will, even over something as simple as a bottle of wine. Therein was the paradox of a man like Francis, who lived and dreamed desire and fantasy with such precision and profitability that it became almost impossible to tell where illusion ended and Francis’ reality began. Most days he doubted even Francis knew.   
  
He wondered as Francis touched the waiter’s wrist and tilted his head to expose the long line of his throat whether or not he would have been better off two years ago if he had ignored the strange stirring of real desire he felt when Francis had surprised him on a couch in Paris with a kiss; a kiss that said so plainly that Francis had found something in him that was interesting enough to play a long game if Jos would just pick up the dice and roll.   
  
“I am sorry, my darling,” Francis said as he returned the weight of his attention fully to Jos, the waiter and his wine apparently already forgotten, “But I thought perhaps we might like wine to celebrate whatever it is you are about to propose.”   
  
“How can you be so certain you will approve?” Jos asked wryly, drumming his fingers over the spread of papers and wishing for a cigarette while Francis smiled slyly at him and winked.   
  
“As I told you and your charming sister, you give yourself away when you are excited,” Francis answered too easily, leaning forward to crowd the space assumed by the splay of Jos’ hand, “And even I can extrapolate that such good numbers bode well for our continued prosperity. So, by all means, tell me what wicked plan you’re hiding in that mercenary heart so I can readily agree.”   
  
Jos smirked with subtle pleasure, still appreciative of the twists of Francis’ mind that led him so swiftly down the path Jos wanted them to walk, coming to his offer at last, “It is my calculation that should we wish to fully exploit the current success of the Blue Tulip and ensure the company longevity, we need to expand.”   
  
Francis considered, favoring Jos with a serious look as he asked, “It is true that we will likely need to recruit, hire, and train new stars to replace those that phase out.”   
  
Jos shook his head and murmured, “That is not expansion. That is maintenance. I am proposing we take a bigger risk,” he paused to meet the warmth and eager interest in Francis’ gaze, smiling a little as he enjoyed the rare surprise in Francis’ eyes when he said, “I want to open another Studio.”   
  
“My darling,” Francis sighed softly, lips parting gently around his astonishment, seemingly genuine and unfeigned as he smiled at Jos and exclaimed, “How bold! How marvelous! Of course, if you think this is what we should do, I will support our efforts without hesitation!”   
  
His doubts quieted, Jos felt the tension in his shoulders dissipate to the point he could not be bothered to care when the waiter interrupted once more, stilling the questions in Francis’ eyes that he wanted to hear, until their glasses were full of whatever wine Francis was plying him with tonight.   
  
“I’m pleased you approve,” Jos offered dryly, amused by Francis’ enthusiasm as he tapped the rim of his glass to Jos’ and laughed merrily, hair falling over his shoulders as he rested his chin in his palm and smiled brightly.   
  
“Naturally, I’ve quite missed my days as an international superstar,” Francis teased, licking his lips lewdly before giving that up in favor of relevance, “Have you settled on a location for this second iteration for the product of our genius?”   
  
“I have a few in mind,” Jos explained slowly, unsurprised that Francis had managed to hit upon the one unresolved issue so quickly, hesitating in telling Francis the fullness of his plan out of the cautious concern that Francis would become enamored of a particular option that Jos wasn't certain he could reasonably attain, “But at the moment it remains largely dependent on the kind of capital I can raise to finance the expansion. I would rather wait to discuss possibilities until I am certain of what we can acquire in a limited time frame with constrained assets.”   
  
“How much do we need?” Francis asked with his usual insistent passion and assurance, so vibrant that Jos could almost see the threads of a plot coming together in the candlelit shadows on his face.   
  
“Our current liquid assets make for a good start,” Jos said, shifting in his chair and away from the appeal of such eager interest, “But it would be ideal if we had an additional source of funds. I am in conversation with Kiku regarding investors and it should not be a barrier to the project moving forward, if you are certain you are amenable.”   
  
Francis lips turned downward, his expression souring momentarily as Jos watched him across the table and listened to the soft exhale of his breathing while he waited for Francis to come back to him.   
  
“My darling,” Francis said at length, eyes bright for all that his voice was oddly hesitant, “I believe I may have an idea in mind that could help.”   
  
“Do tell,” Jos said lowly, unable to resist Francis’ often dark and risky daydreams, drawn to the flush of Francis’ excitement.   
  
Francis leaned closer even as his gaze drifted away while he murmured, “I know in light of recent Denmarkesque debacles, I ought not to ask for such a thing...but would you mind terribly if I asked you to trust me while I work out the details?”   
  
In the space between them, narrow and still in the quiet of evening, Jos could almost see Ivan Braginski’s name in the unhappy and worried curve of Francis’ lips and the unnecessary guilt that still lingered in the corners of his eyes. He considered the readiness with which Francis had signed himself away to Jos’ risky dreams and the thrill that he still felt between them when Francis turned his eyes to Jos and thought of the Blue Tulip’s future as if he knew just what it meant to him. He considered that even when Francis had cost him, the loss had not been so unmanageable as to outweigh the countless gains he could credit to no one else but this man who was frustratingly loyal to him in almost every way that mattered.   
  
He stilled at the soft touch of Francis’ fingers sliding across the hand still resting on his endless tables and charts, the warmth of his skin so terribly familiar where they touched.   
  
And as he rolled his eyes, sighed, and spoke his bittersweet truth,  _“Yes, I trust you,”_  Jos could not find the energy he needed to pull his hand away when Francis laced their fingers together and smiled at him across the table, as full of dangerous promise as ever.


	8. Francis

Although it had taken several months following the Incident for the Blue Tulip gym to regain its luster, Francis had always found that a long, hard run (when a long, hard screw wasn’t in the cards) cleared the clutter from his mind to make way for the litany of words and images that would coalesce into the latest BT production once he returned to his office and let the inspiration flow. Thankful for one of his very few good habits, Francis had indulged in a long run each evening since Jos had come to him with his startlingly wonderful and ambitious proposal, spinning out fantasy while he listened to the mindless hum of music and tried to think nothing of the substantial risk he was about to take. The kilometers had ticked steadily upwards on the screen and his knees ached and it had been worthy every stitch in his side (really, he needed to quit stealing Jos cigarettes so often) and callous to see his vision go from daydream to the edge of three-dimensionality.   
  
That afternoon, two weeks after a quiet dinner when he had promised himself to Jos and the Tulip once more and walked away with the feeling of Jos’ quiet admission of trust between his fingers, his work was finally complete, the blinking cursor defeated and laid to rest for another day and another dream. While he wound down this last run, one more work out before moving on to Phase Two of his grand plan, Francis could not but admit to relief that the project that had consumed him body and soul for all his waking hours was sitting in a neat little bundle of white paper and black ink, just waiting to be brought to life. As his feet moved steadily over the roll of the treadmill, tapping out an enthusiastic rhythm, he took advantage of the sweating silence to consider what would happen when the deed was done and his intentions were laid as bare as skin on a Blue Tulip Screen.   
  
Unfortunately, as was so often the case, Francis was derailed and distracted from his musings by the interruption of one of his dear Tulips, making him fondly regret that he did not carry occasionally carry the same fearful reputation as their darling not-to-be-bothered overlord. He had only just managed to remind himself of Veronika's advice and Gilbert's charmingly phrased admonishment that  _"he stop being a pussy who only played such shitty defense and go in guns ablazing and conquer the Dutch fuck before he knew what hit him,"_ before his internal monologue was rudely interrupted by the appearance of the Tulip's resident gossip.   
  
“Wow, Francy-pants , you’ve totes been in here like everyday,” Feliks said brightly, sprawling over the front of the treadmill and tapping his painted fingernails on the display until Francis sighed, pulled the earbuds loose and gave Feliks the attention he demanded, “What’s up with that?”   
  
“Simply toning the body, my dove,” Francis answered breathlessly, slowing the speed until he was walking instead of running, wary of  Feliks’ calculated look of interest.   
  
“Trying to recapture the glory days of your way fab youth?” Feliks asked drolly, tossing a towel at Francis as he plopped down on the weight bench, twirling his hair between his fingers in an attempt to appear casual, "Show us sweet young things how its done?"   
  
Francis smiled, wiping his face as he responded lightly, “Nothing so ambitious, I assure you. Simply trying to ward off the ravages of my so very advanced age.”   
  
“Uh-huh, ‘cause you’ve like never been one for ambitious plans,” Feliks chirped, smirking at Francis, who returned his curiosity with a dismissive shrug, even as he wondered how much his favorite gossip monger thought he knew.   
  
“You know me too well,” Francis murmured, gathering his things as he caught his reflection and thought, _"yes, this will do nicely"_ , lying with easy pleasure just to give Feliks something to crow about around the proverbial water cooler once the deed was done and he'd been proven right, “But I promise you that I am motivated by nothing more than my own vanity.”   
  
“Right, whatever you say, Bossy-boss,” Feliks said, laughing as he pushed his arms under his head, clearly not intending to use the bench for anything more than a poor man’s chaise longue, “You’re just like keeping that milkshake tight for all the boys coming to your yard.”   
  
“I’m not entirely certain I follow your charming insight, my treasure,” Francis said with amusement, pulling a clean shirt over his head, uninterested in sharing with Feliks just how long it had been since anyone had tasted his milkshake since he’d decided to devote all his attention to getting one particular customer to come calling, “But you needn’t worry about my allure.”   
  
Thankful that the gym was good for working out tensions of another kind, Francis ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and tried to smooth out his appearance into something rakishly disheveled, his desire stirring as he remembered how he had once slid down the mirrors and taken Jos between his lips and tasted the salt on his thighs. He could only be reluctantly grateful that in the two weeks since New Year’s he had been too busy with his precious project to spend the late evening hours in Jos’ office suffering through and reveling in the ever growing tension, wishing he could close the chasm and claim what Jos would not stop him from taking, hands and lips stilled only by the conflict and wariness in Jos’ eyes when he met the invitation in Francis’ gaze.   
  
“Yeah,” Feliks agreed easily, yawning as he sprawled over the equipment, “You’ll prolly be like wrinkled and old and still swimming in dick.”   
  
“You’ve such a way with words.”   
  
Feliks smiled and waved him off regally, “Like what can I say? Its a talent.”   
  
“I am desperately envious,” Francis teased, making his way towards escape, rolling his eyes when Feliks called out to him, throwing out one last lure in attempt to fish for information.   
  
“Let me know if you wanna avail yourself of my mad skills for whatever super secret script you’ve been smirking over for the past two weeks!”   
  
“Goodbye, Feliks,” Francis sing-songed, ignoring Feliks’ smug knowing tone as he let the door shut behind him, shaking his head and sighing while he walked down the hall, plotting how to make his next approach, excitement and anxiety building as his good intentions came ever closer to fruition. He could only hope that this time the seeds he planted blossomed into something beautiful and wanted, without pricking the hands that tended to the garden.   
  
As it seemed that fate was conspiring to place as many obstacles on the path to redemption as possible, Francis found Antonio waiting for him in his office, slumped on his couch and humming a happy, distracted tune.   
  
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Francis asked as he breezed by his friend, hoping that whatever Antonio had to say would be brief, determined to catch his quarry before the hour was too late and the approach would have to wait for another day.   
  
Antonio laughed nervously, the sound of it compelling the fullness of Francis’ attention as Antonio sat up and said, “Well, I’ve been speaking with Gil...”   
  
“Your first mistake, my dear,” Francis replied blithely as he slid into his chair and drummed his fingers possessively over his latest masterpiece, “But what did our precious plum have to say that has you looking so worried?”   
  
Antonio pushed to his feet, running a hand over his face as he let out a deep breath and rushed headlong with his hurried speech, “Are you sure this is a good idea, Francis? I know Gil thinks so, but then he is not exactly an expert in these kind of delicate matters and you were so sad for so long before, my friend, and I do not want to see you that way again if he misunderstands and it all goes wrong.”   
  
Touched, Francis smiled and held out a hand to his dearest friend, pulling him near to perch on the edge of the desk, murmuring, “How on earth did you manage to get Gil to have an entire conversation about the bold solution to my little Dutch dilemma?”   
  
Antonio rolled his eyes heavenward and muttered fondly, “Just because you feel guilty about that one time at university and indulge his foibles doesn’t mean I do. Somewhere between love and war, we find a way to talk like adults.”   
  
Francis kissed Antonio’s hand, smothering his amusement in the warmth of his skin, teasing lightly to mask the rushing of his affection, “Since when are any of us adults? Hmm?”   
  
“I think we grew up in the space between an alley in Florence and the streets of Amsterdam, but maybe you just weren’t paying very good attention,” Antonio returned sweetly, “But then you have been distracted.”   
  
“Too right, my darling,” Francis said quietly,meeting the concern in Antonio’s kind expression, “I am captivated.”   
  
“I know,” Antonio confirmed softly, tilting Francis’ chin up with his free hand, forcing the question once more, “Which is why I want to make sure that you are sure this is the best choice.”   
  
Francis sighed, wishing he could be certain that his gesture would be understood for the declaration it was, having to trust in his own understanding of the man for whom he was about to lay all his intentions bare.   
  
“They say that fortune favors the brave,” Francis said, squeezing the hand holding his before releasing it to settle once more on the script, “I have to believe that he knows me, knows  _us_ , as I know him. And that he will take what I am so ready and willingly giving.”   
  
Antonio sighed and shook his head, voice wry and reluctant as he bent to press a kiss to Francis’ forehead, murmuring, “Only you would give such a thing to a lover, instead of flowers and words.”   
  
Francis laughed brightly, closing his eyes and indulging in the ease of Antonio’s affection as he said, “Jos van Rijn would not know what to do with me if I came to him with roses in hand and declarations of love on my lips. He would wonder what new devilry was afoot. We speak a different language, my darling and I, and I must be true to the game that we play. ”   
  
“And he will know what to do with your next move?” Antonio asked dubiously, still clearly convinced that Francis and Jos were entirely ridiculous.   
  
“Oh, my sweet, I wish I knew,” Francis said softly but surely, “But if I don’t risk this roll of the dice, I will forever be waiting for a cautious man.”   
  
“Well, for what its worth, I think you are very crazy,” Antonio muttered as he slid from Francis’ desk, “But I’ve always thought so and here we both are....so I wish you luck. And love.”   
  
“If only we all had your romantic heart, my treasure,” Francis said with a small smile, standing up with his prize in hand, “Everyone would be as fortunate in friends as I.”   
  
“Just remember that next time your darling assigns me to towel duty,” Antonio teased, holding the door open for Francis, trailing behind him as they walked down the hall, laughing together at the Dutchman’s expense.   
  
Antonio touched his wrist as Francis stopped in front of his destination, claiming his attention once more before Francis made his final play of the afternoon. Francis smiled at the hand suddenly pressed over his heart as Antonio grinned at him with lazy, familiar warmth and sent him forward with one last benediction,   
  
“I am not the only one with a romantic heart. Do not be afraid to trust in yours.”   
  
“I will try,” Francis murmured thickly as he watched Antonio walk away, turning towards the blankness of a closed door with the future of more than one person tucked under his arm as he raised a hand to knock, ready to bet the house.


	9. Eirik

**12/31/12  
11:57pm  
From: Jens**   
_Pics like that aren’t very nice, Norge._   
  
**12/31/12  
11:58pm  
From: Eirik**   
_Oh? I thought you wanted me to think of you at midnight?_   
  
**12/31/12  
11:58pm  
From: Jens**   
_Of course :D But now I’m half-hard in the middle of a party :P_   
  
**12/31/12  
11:59pm  
From: Eirik**   
_Not my problem._   
  
**1/1/13  
12:01am  
From: Jens**   
_So vicious :D Happy New Year. XOXOXOXOXO._   
  
**1/1/13  
12:01am  
From: Eirik.**   
_Idiot._   
  
**1/1/13  
12:02am  
From: Eirik  
Attachment: pic1.jpg**   
_Happy New Year_ .   
  
**1/1/13  
12:04am  
From: Jens**   
_You look beautiful when you let me kiss you. Damn it.  
I miss you...._   
  
Eirik’s finger hovered over the “delete” button, his phone insisting that he free up memory if he wanted to continue saving messages, knowing that the easiest thing to do would be to trash the photos he had sent so recklessly to Jens on New Year’s Eve, to be rid of the various snaps he’d offered both as taunt and proof of thought. But somewhere in the days following his return from Hong Kong, when he’d found it irritatingly difficult to adjust to the lack of another person’s soft sounds in his personal space, and Jens had gone once more radio silent but for short emails hinting at troubling weather at sea, Eirik had decided there was value in having something to come home to.   
  
On New Year’s Eve, surrounded by noise and chaos and the obscene happiness of his co-workers, baffled by the sight of Bonnefoy embracing Van Rijn, it had astonished him to find that his first impulse was to wonder how much was worth relating to Jens in his next email. When the shock had passed and settled into something disturbingly not unpleasant, it hadn’t taken much thought to pull out his phone and fulfill a promise he’d made in those unguarded moments just after waking. The thought of Jens, shameless and aroused a thousand kilometers away, subject to the cruel romance of Eirik’s whims was enough to carry him through his solitary midnight. And the next morning, he'd smirked and called Jens before the sun had quite crept over the canals, pleased by Jens' grumbles and groans at being awoken so early and with such a hangover, before making good on the second part of their Christmas Day deal, informing the sleepy Dane of his great success in managing to discover Aron's little secret, gratified by Jens' mumbled approval and laughing enjoyment.   
  
Now, two weeks later at the end of another work day spent avoiding the nosey Pole and trying to deny the strange twisting in his chest each time he witnessed a man as stoic as Berwald smile so ridiculously when he thought no one was looking, Eirik’s finger drifted from the red button to the green and pressed down before he could question what he was doing.   
  
"Eirik?"   
  
"Yes..." Eirik said slowly, taken aback by the surprised happiness in Jens' voice, so obvious even across such distance, wondering how it was he could engender such unnecessary feelings in anyone.   
  
"Heh! What's up?" Jens asked brightly as Eirik listened to the sound of a door shutting, silencing the sounds of what Eirik imagined was rushing wind and water splashing against the prow of a very beautiful boat, before his voice dipped low with concern, "Everything fine at the Tulip? You alright?"   
  
Eirik frowned, answering coolly, "Why would anything be wrong?"   
  
"No reason," Jens responded peaceably, warmth bleeding back into his tone, "Just wasn't expecting to hear from you. Not that I am complaining."   
  
"Idiot," Eirik said as he settled on his couch, shoving yesterday's script to the floor to make room for the sprawl of his legs, seeking comfort after a long day, uncertain of what to say now that Jens was on the other line, laughing with too much merriment for man who had just been insulted.   
  
"So...." Jens wheedled, "Did you call for anything in particular or were you just missing your Denmark?"   
  
Eirik considered the plethora of excuses he could have given for his momentary weakness in hitting "dial" instead of "delete," letting the line go quiet as he weighed telling Jens that he'd only called to discuss the overly detailed explanation of the Bonnefoy-Van Rijn debacle Jens had emailed in the wake of his NYE confusion, or lay the blame at Berwald's stupidly large feet, before sighing quietly and giving in.   
  
"The latter."   
  
"Holy shit. Seriously?" Jens exclaimed, full of a fool's disbelief, the sound of it forcing Eirik to close his eyes to try and dampen the queer racing of his heart.   
  
"For almost two months you repeatedly insist that I should feel such a thing," Eirik taunted coolly to cover his nerves, "And when I finally comply, you doubt it could be possible. Perhaps I should take it back, if I'm not to be believed."   
  
"No, no, no," Jens crowed, recovering quickly from his apparent shock, voice ringing loud and cheerful in Eirik's ear, "No take backs allowed. Damn, I just wish I'd been able to record it."   
  
"Idiot," Eirik murmured, face flushing beneath the splay of the hand covering his eyes, "Just mark it down on your calendar."   
  
Jens laughed, tone roughening into something low and intimate that went tight and warm in Eirik's chest, "Sure thing, Norge. I'll decorate it with little hearts and everything."   
  
"I will hang up on you," Eirik threatened through his reluctant amusement, knowing that given half the chance, the moron probably would do just as he promised, always so brash and enthusiastic in his excitement.   
  
"Don't do that," Jens cajoled, "I've got something I want to show you. Hold on, let me hit send on the email I was writing before you got lonely and called up your sugar-bear."   
  
"Hell will freeze over before I refer to you as anything so insipid," Eirik choked out, a little broken by the very thought of such words ever leaving his mouth.   
  
"Stranger things have been known to happen," Jens said with too delighted laughter, "But in the meantime, guess I'll just have to settle for Idiot Jens."   
  
Eirik said nothing, ignoring the cackles reverberating in his ear in favor of holding his phone away from his ear to open the new message, swallowing as a little,  _"Oh,"_  escaped from his throat.   
  
"You like?" Jens asked smugly, the richness of his voice matching the image before Eirik's eyes...Jens tanned and smiling under a Mediterranean sun, short slung low enough on his hips to reveal the familiar paleness of the skin Eirik had once touched and tasted.   
  
"Tolerable," Eirik admitted as he brought the phone back to his ear, wondering how he could have forgotten how it was to be blinded by a fool's grin, mumbling distractedly, "Those tan lines would look terrible on camera."   
  
"Good thing I'm not filming any more," Jens purred, "But if you wanted a private show, I'd do it for you."   
  
"Who would want that?" Eirik answered, tone going low and dark without thought, Norway responding to Denmark.   
  
"God, I love it when you talk to me like that," Jens murmured hotly, sending little warning sparks of desire up Eirik's spine, "Just like every time I had you in bed."   
  
"You never had me in bed, Idiot," Eirik reminded him coolly, trying to find the will to regain control of the conversation, to keep it from spiraling downwards with the rushing of his quiet lust.   
  
Jens sighed messily, protesting stubbornly, "Fine, just like every time I had you on screen. Just how I know it will be when I do get you in bed."   
  
"Presumptuous," Eirik muttered, sitting up abruptly when a resounding knock at the door shattered the mood and brought him back from the shores of Greece to the dim light of his Blue Tulip dressing room.   
  
"Hopeful," Jens corrected with sweet insistence as Eirik snorted and crossed the two steps to discover who had come to annoy him now, startled to find Francis standing at his door, artfully rumpled and smiling at him invitingly. Eirik frowned and backed up a step, knowing that Francis coming to him with such an expression generally meant he was not going to like what he was about to hear.   
  
"Jens, I have to go," Eirik murmured into the receiver, hanging up before Jens could ask why or persist in ending conversations with ridiculous things like _I love you_ , shoving the phone in his pocket and standing aside to let Bonnefoy swan into his room, eyeing the document tucked under his arm with suspicion.   
  
"Apologies, my ice prince," Bonnefoy simpered with that same charming smile that had annoyed him to the point of curiosity all those years ago in an Oslo cafe, "I did not mean to take you away from your long lost love."   
  
"He'll wait," Eirik answered shortly, gesturing abruptly at the script as he asked coldly, "You don't normally deliver those in person."   
  
"Mmm, I suppose not," Bonnefoy said lightly, trailing over to stand in front of him, smile distant and consideration, "But this particular script merits special attention."   
  
Eirik arched an skeptical eyebrow, wary of the expectation in Bonnefoy's watchful gaze, holding out reluctant fingers to take the offered document in hand. For the second time that afternoon, his eyes went wide in astonishment and a tiny rush of surprise bubbled up unrestrained from his lungs and between the parting of his disbelieving lips as he read and re-read what was there, plain as day in black and white. He looked up to find Bonnefoy starting at him with gentle amusement and strange anticipation, unable to keep the genuine shock from his expression.   
  
In the tumult of his thoughts, he wondered fleetingly what Jens would say if he knew just what and who Eirik would be doing in two days time.   
  
Bonnefoy laughed and pushed long, warm fingers into his hair, tilting his head back so he had no choice but to listen and believe when Bonnefoy leaned down to murmur, "No need to look so perplexed, my darling, when I'm offering you the opportunity to become a superstar."


	10. Francis and Eirik

_“Alfred, darling, don’t fuss. Just hold the camera steady like I showed you yesterday and let me do the rest. Don’t look so worried, my dove, everything is perfectly under control.”_   
  
France looked up from his perusal of the latest battlefield correspondence, hastily shoving the missive into the desk drawer as the knocking at his bedroom door rattled once more, insistent in its quest to rob him of the few moments of hoarded freedom in a time of seemingly endless war. He paused to consider the state of his dishabille, coat long abandoned, vest and cravat undone, the laces of his breeches loosened in anticipation of evening repose, smirking as he considered that whoever dared to come to his door at such a late hour doubtless had less than innocent intentions, be they prurient or violent in nature.   
  
“Enter,” France commanded lowly, fingering the trigger of his pistol, still such a new and valued weapon in these tumultuous times, a gilded gift from his short and temperamental new boss with the penchant for empire building.   
  
He smirked and set the gun aside with the remainder of his caution as a beautiful and recently familiar shadow of a man slipped into his room, cold and cutting features illuminated only by the flickering of candles remaining entirely silent even as he closed the door and the distance between them. The laxity of his dress told France that Norway had tumbled or been pushed from his bed to deliver whatever message he held between the angry clasp of his fingers, the thinness of his night shirt revealing pale skin that France could not but hope to see flushed and reddened by a talented mouth and greedy, knowing hands. France had not been unaware of the cautious, questioning glances Norway tossed his way over the banquet table in the few weeks he had been interred in France's home,  left largely to his own devices by a distracted Denmark. He wondered if perhaps Norway had come to make good on all the fleeting insinuations that had been in his eyes as France smiled and talked of the future.    
  
“My dear Norway,” France purred as he leaned forward in rake his calculating and appreciative gaze over lithe limbs and a frowning mouth, smiling into the chill mystery of sea blue eyes, “To what do I owe such an unexpected pleasure at so dark and dangerous an hour?”   
  
Norway’s gaze glittered with words unspoken as he came ever closer, saying nothing as he crowded into the space between the splay of France’s legs and the edge of the desk, unfolding the sheath of papers for France’s perusal.   
  
“Denmark wanted you to see these,” Norway informed him coolly, voice a low whisper in the stillness of the room, so quiet that France had little choice but to slide closer, arms circling the narrow expanse of his tense and reluctant ally.   
  
“Mmm,” France acknowledged, giving the maps a cursory glance, far more interested in the subtle flush of color on such flawless cheeks and the warmth of Norway’s breath on his neck as he bent over the documents and pointed at some meaningless target, “And why did he not bring them himself? Does he trust so you entirely?”   
  
“Denmark is a self-important fool,” Norway answered with rasping harshness, turning within the spread of France’s knees to rest against the desk and peer down at him with veiled curiosity and a hint of something infinitely more delicious.   
  
France demurred, picking up an abandoned quill and twirling it between his fingers as he considered, “Such contempt for your better half, my dear?”   
  
Norway’s eyes burned with repressed rage, his voice clipped as France slowly closed his legs, holding him loosely in place, “Denmark has never been my better half. I care nothing for him. ”   
  
“For all that you have been bound so long?” France, murmured, touching the feathered end of the quill to the cruel twist of Norway’s lips, “I think you protest too much, my sweet. I rather think you care very much.”   
  
Norway scoffed and looked away, the anxious heaving of his chest giving him away as surely as an admission of guilt while France continued spinning out the threads of fantasy, enamored of the violent untapped yearning in those angry eyes.   
  
“But tell me, my sweet, what has brought you here? Do you seek someone to appreciate you in all the ways a man blinded by pride and familiarity cannot?”   
  
Norway turned back to him, chin titled haughtily above the tease of the quill, his gaze wary but interested, providing France with all the invitation he needed to trail long fingers beneath the loose cuff of a night shirt to chase the warmth of Norway’s skin, circling around a racing pulse and pulling him near.   
  
“Do your doubts weigh on you in the dark?” France purred, pushing the shirt higher, gratified when Norway’s hands gripped the bottom and pulled it swiftly over his head, making way for the admiring press of France’s lips above the dip of his belly button, trembling under the whisper of words and the touch of a tongue, “Do you wonder why it is you must follow his lead? Consigned to always be the secondary?”   
  
Vicious fingers tightened in his hair, pushing his face into a ripple of flesh and muscle as he laughed lowly and dragged the quill down the sweet curve of Norway’s side, eliciting a hissed sigh.   
  
“Ah, ah,” France chastised lightly, kissing his way from the tangle of breech laces to the sharp ridge of Norway’s collarbone, feather following in the wake of his parted lips, “You should not be so rough with one who understands the depths of your value, my angry little Viking. I know what it is you want from me.”   
  
The pull of the hands in his hair only became harsher, delighting the darkness in France’s heart, the threat of the dalliance thickening his cock and making him determined  to answer the hidden needs in Norway’s demanding gaze.   
  
Abruptly, he pushed out of his chair, dragging his fingers down the swelling of Norway’s breeches, crowding into him with warm, assured desire until the other man was sprawled over the detritus of his desk, naked back crumpling Denmark’s ludicrous plans as France loomed over him, sucking at the hollow of his throat and pulling at the laces of his pants.   
  
“Who would not want to have such loveliness,” France murmured, retrieving his quill as he smirked and hushed the suspicion in Norway’s eyes, rubbing a thumb over the fullness of his bottom lip, laughing when Norway’s teeth sank down into the tip, worrying his flesh to the near the point of breaking. Freeing his abused finger, he replaced the digit with his lips, smothering Norway’s snarl with a bruising kiss, happy to fight such delicious fire with fire of his own, swallowing the harsh and rasping sighs that poured from the ripple of Norway’s throat as he pressed his palm against the heavy length of Norway’s cock and stroked lightly upwards.   
  
When Norway was rocking into him with short aborted movements and the papers on his desk were torn beyond repair from the writhing of Norway’s back, France set him free from the depths of their kiss, leaning back to admire the pale spread of Norway’s chest, reddened by the friction of France’s shirt.   
  
Such untouched beauty begged for pleasure’s ruination, France thought as he hummed and dipped the quill into ink, dripping black and wet over white skin before Norway had recovered enough of his senses to protest this mapping of of their illicit liaison. He dragged the point roughly over each nipple, tracing lines of darkness from navel to sternum as he continued stroking Norway’s cock, reveling in the sight of Norway arching into the touch of his hand and the scratch of his pen.   
  
“Is this what you have been so hungry for, my darling?” France asked, voice rich with desire, drawing a dividing line down the middle of Norway’s chest, “To be told that you are noticed? That there is someone in this life who knows that Denmark’s star has dimmed and you are left to linger needlessly in his shadow?”   
  
Norway moaned and thrashed, hands tearing the quill from France’s fingers and tossing it aside as he pushed up from his repose and snatched an angry, vicious kiss from the smugness of France’s mouth, smearing the destruction France had wrought on his skin over the folds of his shirt. France hummed and jerked his fingers resolutely over Norway’s cock, reminding him who it was that held him within the span of his arm, who it was that had painted him with desire. Norway’s legs were clinched around his waist, not waiting or asking for his pleasure as he pushed into the circle of France’s fist with the kind of shameless, greedy, desire that France appreciated in a man.   
  
Not one to be outdone, he stole his hand from Norway’s lap, silencing his paramour’s snarling complaints with a kiss equally dirty and demanding as the one that Norway had assaulted him with moments before, returning his passion with equal fervor, letting Norway feel the size and scope of his desire as he rubbed his cock into a naked and writhing hip.   
  
Uninterested in pursuing this further with a stitch of clothing to separate him from the stained warmth of Norway’s skin, France groaned, low and lustful, hauling the clinging, desperate Norwegian from the edge of his ruined desk, laughing over the sound of Norway’s protestation as he carried him to the bed. The man fell to the sheets with considerable grace, naked limbs sprawling over the covers as Norway glared at France and reached for him with impatient hands, murmuring coolly, “What a ridiculous waste of ink.”   
  
France winked as he stepped from his pants, stroking a lazy hand over his cock while he stepped towards his scowling lover, “I think not. When you slip from my bed, you will take with you the marks of my admiration. And when I look upon the blackness that has marred my linens, I will remember why it was you came to me and smile.”   
  
Norway looked at him suspiciously for all that his legs and his lips fell open once more, hot and insistent as France moved over him, running his hands over the ink that dried into a senseless, beautiful mess. He welcome the sudden grip of cold fingers around his cock, stroking with careful precision intended to torment and distracting, sighing at the entirely vicious assault of teeth and lips over his throat, doubtless intending to mark him in vengeance.   
  
France shifted onto his heels, laughing still as he touched a single finger to the pleasurable ache of Norway’s punishment, smiling darkly into a face of such lovely and mysterious wanting, enjoying taking each of Norway’s secrets from the shivering of skin as he pulled his legs over his shoulders and pressed teasing kisses against the bones of his ankle. Without waiting, answering the demand in Norway’s furious glare, France pushed inside the warmth that betrayed the ice in Norway’s eyes, moaning as Norway clenched tightly around him, continuing to rise to every challenge.   
  
When there was no longer space between their bodies and the air had returned to his lungs, France bent down to kiss the fluttering of Norway’s eyes, rolling his hips with in unforgiving tease as he moved his mouth to the vulnerable shell of his ear, whispering sweetly, “Did you come here for this, my treasure? Or did you come here because you wish for me to tell you how it was to overthrow my own tyranny?”   
  
Norway stiffened, nails raking down the arching of his back, answering France without speaking in the violent shudder of his body and the resounding echo of his desperate moan. France smiled and licked the curve of his throat, scoring Norway’s throat with his teeth before rising up once more to take Norway’s cock in hand and murmuring, “Is this what you desire? To know what it feels like to find independence from that which has ceased to serve you well?”   
  
Norway thrashed and grasped at France’s hair, trying to pull at the strands and drag him into the desperate parting of lips that denied nothing, cheeks flushed with pleasure and exertion, never once breaking the steady rocking of his body.   
  
“You must never tell,” Norway gritted out, low and rough, frigidity dissolved by the heat of their embrace, demanding and never begging as he earned France’s undying and ardent admiration.   
  
France stilled his sharp thrusts, gentling Norway’s displeasure with a cloying kiss as he pulled free and urged him onto his hands and knees, running his desirous mouth down the long and lovely line of Norway’s back as he took his cock in hand and pressed inside once more, burying his moan in the damp curve of Norway’s throat, assuring him with countless whispers that he would never betray such a precious confidence. Norway pushed into him as France took his pleasure from the eager, unrelenting clench of his body and ran his fingers beneath the bow of Norway’s chest, twisting his nipples and teasing at the dip of his bellybutton.   
  
“You are a treasure waiting to be rediscovered,” France murmured as he spread Norway’s knees further apart to watch the slide of his cock and the sharp jerks of Norway’s hand over his own hardness, bring himself to steadily to completion as France took him with increasing speed and force, unable to resist the urgent rush of his desire that compelled every snap of his hips. Norway glared at him hazily over his shoulder, hissing his refusal of such pretty affection even as he came into his stroking fingers, gasping as France continued to push into him, undeterred by the delicious tightening of Norway’s orgasm.   
  
France stilled only when Norway’s arms began to tremble, legs threatening to give out from under him, pulling free of the clinging warmth of his body to turn him over once more, beguiled and undone by the sight of such unapologetic and untouchable angry lust writ in the flush of Norway’s cheeks and the swell of his lips as he came in a hot rush over the ink stained skin of his chest. With the last fleeting, gasps of his pleasure, France kissed Norway’s ruined smirk, whispering to him through his failing breath, “I will keep this part of you a secret always.”   
~~~~   
  
“Well,” Eirik sighed breathlessly once Alfred’s awed _cut!_  echoed through the silence of the studio, meeting Francis’ soft, considering smile, with a wry grin of his own, “That was...intense.”   
  
The assembled crowd broke into chaotic chatter, gossip and speculation already running rampant only moments after the tape had stopped running and Francis had returned to himself, his first thought in the aftermath of pleasure to wonder how long it would take for Jos to push his way through the gawking throngs of their employees and find him.   
  
Francis tried to still the anxious fluttering of his thoughts, knowing beyond a reasonable doubt that what he and Eirik had just done would be successful beyond the Tulip's wildest expectations, but would Jos understand why he had done this? Would his darling accept what he offered with the only art he had to give?   
  
“I’m flattered,” Francis murmured, stretching out beside his magnificent co-star, skin cooling as his heart slowed, favoring the wonderfully mussed Norwegian with an appreciative glance as he fell to Francis’ side, face half turned into the rumpled pillows, “You were exquisite. A born star, my sweet.”   
  
Eirik looked at him coolly, once more slipping into distant regard, quietly asking the question that was doubtless on everyone's mind, “Why did you do this?”   
  
Francis traced a finger over his lips, humming as he thought of cold eyes gone hot with bemused, calculating desire as they had widened in obvious surprise when they came into the Studio to find France making so intimate an alliance with Norway. He sighed and answered Eirik with rare, sweet, honesty, “I believe it is called making a grand romantic gesture.”   
  
“I am certain I do not want to know what that means,” Eirik said dismissively, brow furrowed endearingly, his frown giving away his sentiments  as he muttered, “So why me?”   
  
“Ah,” Francis replied with genuine delight, turning his head to watch the fragile play of emotion over Eirik’s subtle beauty, “Because you are and always have been my favorite. And because I thought in light of how circumstances have conspired between you and me and a third party to remain nameless, you might appreciate the windfall that is most assuredly coming your way once our little dalliance hits the market.”   
  
Eirik looked dubious, wincing as he sat up and dragged a hand over the smudged remnants of France’s ink, “Will this really be so much more profitable than my previous work?”   
  
Francis pulled the sheet over his body, lounging easily as he reproached his Doubting Thomas, “My sweet, you and Jens might have been quite successful, but I’m  _Francis Bonnefoy_ . Just as you were not disappointed moments ago, you will not be disappointed by the sudden padding of your bank account,” he paused, laughing wryly, “May it be enough for your darling boyfriend to forgive my intrusion.”   
  
Nor, he hoped, would Jos be disappointed by the unanticipated splash of black on the Blue Tulip ledger, banking on his efforts being worth enough to give Jos the freedom to open their second studio wherever his clever and mercenary heart desired.   
  
Whatever scathing response Eirik had to such an insinuation was lost in the resounding silence that followed in the wake of a commanding voice echoing over the the din.   
  
“Everyone out. Now.”   
  
Francis smiled and took a deep breath while Eirik nearly vaulted from the bed and the chaos in the studio started scurrying towards the exit, feet moving quickly away from the unpredictable wrath of their dear Big Bad Wolf. Francis sighed and settled into the pillows, attempting to appear casual and certain as he sprawled under the thinness of the sheet and ignored the countless curious and worried glances thrown his way as his colleagues departed and his inscrutable darling finally came near.   
  
The silence was almost as deafening as the anticipatory racing of his heart while Francis watched Jos close the distance between them, his expression giving little away beyond the unsettled surprise and wary interest still evident in the worried lines that crept from his eyes.   
  
“Alone at last,” Francis breathed out gently, resisting the urge to hold out a hand and drag Jos to his side and demand to know if he had understood what it was Francis had offered with each pitched sigh and roll of his hips, “Did you enjoy the show, my darling?”   
  
Jos stood at the end of the bed, arms crossed over his chest as he raked his clouded gaze up the length of Francis’ still bare skin, deflecting the flirtation as he murmured lowly, “A profitable performance to be certain. Any reason for such unexpected theatrics?”   
  
Francis sighed softly and waited for Jos to meet his eyes, wanting desperately for Jos to hear the sincerity in his voice and remember a promise he had made on an afternoon not so long ago, answering sweetly, “As I’ve always said, I needed a compelling reason. And I have one, my darling, a most compelling reason.”   
  
Jos’ eyebrows arched in surprise, the jump in his throat and the clenching of the fingers drumming against his arm assuring Francis that he was not alone in holding fast to the memories that had gone so long unacknowledged between them. Francis smiled and waited in the thick silence for Jos to determine how he would proceed, how far he would push to understand all the rules of the very different game Francis wished to play.   
  
Jos’ arms fell loose to let his fingers skate over the swell the sheets that covered Francis' toes, his voice still wary and distant as he said quietly, “Kiku would have assisted the Tulip in finding investors. You did not have to do this for the Studio.”   
  
Francis shook his head softly, holding Jos’ conflicted gaze and exhaling as he gave his honeyed confession, licking his lips to taste  words so romantic and bold as to feel frightened as they fell from his tongue, “I wanted to do this. I wish to be the one who can make your dreams come true.”   
  
Francis was certain he had not seen anything so alluring as Jos’ fleeting expression of open shock and rare undisguised desire, so momentarily vulnerable and unmasked in his disbelief that Francis finally came to know just how once upon a time they had so destructively misunderstood everything of importance.   
  
Jos’ hand trailed lightly up the length of his leg, his face hidden from Francis’ searching, greedy gaze as he skirted quietly around the bed, the gentle touch of his fingers they drifted over hidden knees and the sloping of a thigh more arousing than any of the thousand obscene and passionate embraces Francis had experienced, the sweetness of their shared silence thick and devastating as he waited.   
  
At last, Jos’ hand came to rest over his chest, pressing down lightly as though to hold him in place, thumb rubbing over the red stain from Norway’s vicious mouth. Francis sighed prettily and turned his face to meet the veiled warmth and lingering uncertainty in Jos’ gaze, smiling slow and soft as Jos leaned down, the scent of smoke and cologne filling his senses as surely as the lovely wanting in the whispered curve of Jos’ smile.   
  
“Selfish,” Jos murmured at last, voice so low and rough with desire and reluctant affection, Francis felt it scrape against the rawness of his yearning.   
  
Francis spread his hands over the top of the sheets in a sign of surrender, returning the intensity of Jos’ consideration with a heavy, measured stare, shaking his head once more in negation, answering with quiet sincerity, “Jealous, my darling. Possessive.”   
  
Jos’ eyes widened, that enchanting expression of surprise overtaking all his reserve for another brief moment in time, precious to Francis in its fragile rarity, the fingers splayed over his heart tightening and pulling against his skin, tempting him almost to the point of breaking.   
  
He wanted to wind his arms around Jos’ neck and tumble him to the bed and erase every lingering hint of doubt with the insistence of his touch, but Francis held perfectly still, keeping Jos’ questioning, marveling gaze, knowing that he had brought them as far as they could go without Jos deciding where to take them next.   
  
“I see,” Jos breathed out in a long low whisper, fingers sliding from Francis’ chest to cradle his chin, holding him with unrelenting gentleness as Francis watched his conflicted eyes flutter shut and listened to the sigh that escaped from the lips that lowered to brush over his own.   
  
Francis parted his lips and let Jos kiss him in the quiet of an abandoned studio, permitting Jos to seek out the answers he needed in the welcome of his embrace, disassembled by the sweet uncertainty of a questioning kiss, only to feel as though all the pieces of his misunderstood heart came together into something new and painfully sweet under the tentative press of Jos’ smile.   
  
Though he could do nothing but hope Jos had found what he needed in Francis’ kiss and in the admissions that echoed still in the silence of the room even after Jos had left him without another word, Francis sighed and put his faith in Jos and the fragility of possibility, trusting in the lingering taste of smoke on his lips and the remembered tremble of Jos’ hands as he held him near.   
~~~   
  
And when he came to work the following morning, sore in body but hopeful in heart and mind, the answer he had so wanted was waiting for him in a vase on his desk, in the shape of resplendent and reminiscent tulips in each color of rainbow,  whispering Jos’ invitation to come again as surely as the note tucked between the vibrant petals that read,   
  
_Dinner?_


	11. Francis

As a rule, Francistook pleasure in new experiences, particularly as there weren’t many experiences of which he had yet to partake. So, as he scrubbed furiously at every imagined stain his kitchen and checked and re-checked the consistency of the coq-au-vin simmering on the stove, he tried to enjoy the unsettling flutter of nerves in his chest. It was strange, he thought, for a man of his age and position in life (who had been in more positions than he could reasonably count) to feel the sort of anxious excitement more typically associated with sweet young things suffering from the first blush of attraction.   
  
And yet, Francis could not deny the flood of warmth he felt each time he looked at the card he had tacked to his refrigerator, a tiny promise of dinner and so much more scrawled in precise and familiar handwriting. True, he had not anticipated that he would be forced to wait an entire week to extend the offer of a homemade meal in his home, (away from prying eyes and anything that could distract him from relearning the curve of Jos’ smile), but circumstances had conspired against his romantic intentions. Every night for a week had found him standing next to Eirik, smiling and flattering the masses as they promoted their wildly popular video while earning the Studio’s keep.   
  
When he had attempted to protest such a vigorous promotion schedule, his darling overlord had only smirked and informed him that this was part and parcel of making his dream come true. Francis had thought that perhaps Jos was searching for more time to consider his decision or to regret the tulips Francis kept beside his bed even as they wilted. But in the fleeting moments they had spent alone since a quiet embrace on a rumpled bed, Francis had felt the warmth of Jos’ regard. Beneath the chill amusement he exuded each time Francis stumbled into the office worn and tired from another night gallivanting with his fans, Francis could feel the attraction and anticipation. He had felt it in the of surety the hand that splayed over the curve of his back when Francis leaned over his desk and in the heaviness of the gaze that watched him as he walked.   
  
He had felt it in the small, secret smile Jos gifted him that morning when he had grasped his wrist as they passed in the hallway and commanded, “Come over tonight, my darling. No more of these clubs and bars.”   
  
“You are going to cook for me?” Jos had said, rubbing his thumb over a palm that was happy to oblige the easy intimacy of such a touch, “I would say you were a cheap date, were I not positive this will cost me.”   
  
Francis had pouted with playful amusement, leaning forward to brush his lips over the slope of Jos’ ear as he murmured low and sweet, “It will be worth it. I am a very good cook.”   
  
He had almost foregone what little control he had left and pulled Jos into one of the empty dressing rooms when his darling had kissed the corner of his mouth and teased, “I remember.”   
  
However, in fine French tradition, Francis had resisted the temptation to kiss the smugness from Jos’ lips and instead focused all of his considerably pent-up energies on preparing for his...date.   
  
Now that the hour of Jos’ arrival had come and gone, the clock showing that his punctul darling was more than five minutes tardy, Francis found that he was remarkably, deliciously flustered. He was pink-cheeked and awash in excitement like a girl waiting for her new beau, hoping that perhaps tonight was the night for that first magical kiss. For all that he had experienced passion in spades (and spades and spades), Francis could not help but think that the way his heart jumped and his desire deepened at the sound of the doorbell was something else entirely.   
  
Remembering this time to take off the apron that had once amused and offended his exacting beloved, Francis smiled at the happiness reflected from the face in the mirror. He smoothed a hand over his hair and softened the curve of his grin to something low and inviting before opening the door to let his beau inside.   
  
The butterflies in his stomach quieted as Jos stepped over the threshold, confident and handsome in the long coat he wore on cool evenings, wonderfully familiar but for the surprising absence of the scent of smoke.   
  
“You’re late,” Francis teased as he stood aside to accommodate his guest within the narrowness of his hallway, “I had quite begun to despair.”   
  
Jos smirked and crowded into his space, pressing a chill kiss to his cheek and a cold bottle between his unsuspecting fingers, murmuring smugly, “I had to make a stop.”   
  
Francis smiled, delighted by the unexpected gift of affection as he admired the label, deeply curious as  he asked, “Tell me, my darling, whatever have I done to merit such lovely champagne?”   
  
“Perhaps I wish to make a toast to the man of the hour,” Jos answered with gentle sarcasm as Francis warmed to the tone of satisfaction that ran beneath such flippancy, intrigued by the assurance Jos carried with him in the set of his shoulders.   
  
Flattered in spite of the sarcasm, Francis fluttered his eyelashes and gestured for Jos to go ahead, calling after him, “By all means, my sweet, celebrate me as often as you like,” while hanging his coat and admiring the long legs that crossed his floors and made their way into his living room without hesitation.   
  
Francis carried the champagne into the kitchen, surreptitiously watching Jos run his fingers over the pictures on the bookshelf, wondering if he was interested in the faces within the frames or checking for dust as he asked with laughter in his voice, “Shall I pour us a glass before dinner? A palate cleanser after a very long week?”   
  
“I didn’t buy it so it could waste away unappreciated in your fridge,” Jos replied dryly while Francis rolled his eyes with amused disdain and set to making work of opening his lovely gift, enjoying the sibilant hiss of the cork leaving the bottle.   
  
“As though anything you gave to me would go unappreciated, my darling,” Francis taunted as he returned to the living room, handing a glass to the man who now reigned over his couch, seemingly at ease.   
  
“I will remember that next time I give you a promotional schedule to keep,” Jos answered, gaze playful and open while Francis came to stand between the spread of his knees, just within reach of the teasing smirk pursed over the rim of his finest glassware.   
  
“How droll we are tonight,” Francis murmured, smiling down at Jos and dangling the flute between his fingers, the mood between them as thick and sweet as chocolate left in the summer sun, “I’ll have you know I’m simply far too advanced in age to keep up with that lifestyle.”   
  
“Finally admitting to your age?” Jos asked with quiet humor, leaning forward to peer up at him with something bordering on happiness, “I am glad to hear it.”   
  
“Oh? And why is that, my equally old partner in decrepitude?” Francis trilled, bending just enough to more properly appreciate the little lines of mirth in Jos’ forehead, “Do the circles under my eyes gained from meeting your exacting demands please you so?”   
  
“Yes.” Jos answered with frustratingly endearing simplicity, “But it is far more relevant to a very interesting phone call I received this morning.”   
  
Intrigued and impatient, Francis sighed with fond exasperation, straightening from his admiring crouch as he muttered, “A phone call relevant to my age. Do tell.”   
  
His interest and apprehension grew as Jos raised his glass in a toast, coming to his point at last when he murmured soft and sweet, “Ms. Héderváry contacted me this morning to inform me, as owner of the Blue Tulip Studios, that you, Francis Bonnefoy, are being given the European Adult Film Network’s  _Lifetime Achievement Award._ ” He paused, smirking at Francis’ astonishment, “So, my congratulations on a lifetime of hard work. I am pleased to have benefitted from even a fraction.”   
  
Francis flushed with surprise and happiness, barely noticing the taste of champagne that he poured down his throat as his body raced ahead of his startled mind and followed the rote motions of a toast.   
  
“If I had known this was all it took to render you speechless, I would have advocated for the award years ago,” Jos teased wryly, dragging Francis back to his senses with the touch of cool fingers to the inside of his wrist, pressing down lightly until Francis had found words once more.   
  
“I believe I am quite honored. And very glad to have shared the honor with the Tulip, the home to my favorite work,” Francis murmured, laughing as the news took root, “Seems a lovely way to commemorate my re-retirement.” He paused, frowning as he considered just what he had missed in his astonishment, arching a suspicious eyebrow as he took in Jos’ measured enjoyment of his own enjoyment, accusing him playfully, “You’ve known about this since this morning, wicked creature!”   
  
Jos’ voice deepened, rolling like thunder over the rush of Francis’ desire, “I have.”   
  
“And why not make the announcement at the office?” Francis asked lowly, setting his glass on the coffee table so he could spread his fingers over the strong curve of broad shoulders and pin Jos in place with the weight of his hands and his gaze.   
  
Jos blinked at him slowly, lips parting around a sly, certain smile as he said, “Perhaps I want to be the first to celebrate you.”   
  
“Oh, my darling,” Francis whispered without thought, caught in a net of affection and lust, knowing now he had the cure to dispel the doubt that had lingered beneath the projection of confidence and assurance. In the softness of a smile, he knew his feelings were returned. Now, with nothing to impede that surety, with the discovery of a second chance within the cool familiarity of Jos’ gaze, Francis felt only potential and pleasure.   
  
With nimble fingers he plucked the champagne glass from Jos’ grasp, abandoning it with his own before turning to meet Jos’ waiting, expectant stare. He shifted into the space that welcomed him without question, leaning in so near he could see the faintest pink splashed on pale cheeks when he murmured, low and close, “Selfish.”   
  
“Wrong,” Jos replied roughly as hands settled on Francis’ waist and tugged him forward to topple almost gracelessly into his lap, “Possessive. Jealous.”   
  
“I see we are of the same mind, my darling,” Francis said breathlessly when he spread his legs and let Jos pull him down, hands spread against the back of the couch as he parted his lips and offered the only kind of reward that could be given in return for such wanted promises.   
  
Delighted by the feeling of Jos solid and sure beneath him, entranced by the sound of his own words falling so deliciously from other lips, Francis found himself wonderfully unprepared for the sudden flood of Jos’ desire in the wake of the first gentle touch of his happy mouth to Jos’ soft smile. To his surprised and uncomplaining pleasure, the air was stolen from his lungs while Jos kissed him hungrily and pulled at the fabric of his shirt as though trying to do eradicate at once all the inches that had separated them for far too long.   
  
Francis moaned his approval and arched into the feeling of greedy teeth nipping at his bottom lip and hurried fingers pushing their way beneath his clothes to run hot and insistent up his spine and twist within the curls of his hair. And he could not but return the rushed and anxious passion in kind, forgetting what it was to be measured and considerate as he wished to remember the corners of Jos’ lips and the feeling of arms flexed taut with lust when Francis rolled his body over the cock rocking into curve of his bottom.   
  
Like the butterflies that had flown for the first time in his chest earlier that evening, Francis knew that this too was new. This reckless and happy desperation to be near, to be held close and dear, to kiss without finesse, and murmur low and ridiculous nothings with no ulterior motive than to express the rushing joy he felt each time Jos touched his lips to the humming pulse in his throat. And he knew from the fumbling of fingers at his belt and the sighs that escaped muffled and low from the kiss neither would relinquish, that he was not alone in this needy madness of feeling, half-ready to spill over at the first touch of Jos’ fingers to the bare skin of his thighs.   
  
There was nothing practiced in the groan that rippled from his throat when Jos wrenched his hand from his pants, twisting and pushing until Francis was splayed on his back and reaching for him anxiously, uninterested in the unnecessary distance between the touch of their hands and lips. He laughed breathlessly at the answering greed in Jos’ gaze, pulling his darling to where he had always belonged, within the span of his arms and the spread of his legs. Jos smothered the sound of his sighing laughter with the press of his lips and the curl of his fingers around their cocks, their bodies coming together in rushed and frantic loveliness.   
  
He would have felt chagrined by the wild and fervent arch of his hips into reach roll of Jos’ body, remembering through his astonishment how he had wanted to remind Jos of how good they were together, how Francis wanted to touch his hands and lips to each hidden piece of Jos’ desire until he was undone entirely. He would have regretted the messiness of kiss and the grasp of his hands, had it not been for the rough, unmeasured strokes of Jos’ that betrayed how he was beset by the same inability to do more than chase after the heady, undeniable burn between them.   
  
Jos called out to him, murmuring his name as Francis buried his flushed, shameless face within the warm crook of Jos’ neck and came with the force of a man who had forgotten what it was to lose control. Tasting the sweat on Jos’ skin and missing the clinging smell of smoke, Francis muffled his happy, wondering laughter at having been caught so wonderfully off-guard as he dragged his thigh between Jos’ legs and felt the answering splash of Jos’ desire against his stomach.   
  
In the aftermath, Francis brushed his lips over the fragility of closed eyes and waited until there was enough breath between them to kiss Jos once more. This time, in the stillness that settles in the wake of an explosion, Francis embraced him gently, a fleeting touch of sweetness as he ran his hands down the wrinkled shirt that as yet remained over Jos’ skin, whispering all the intentions he possessed for what came next.   
  
Francis smiled when Jos pressed a sticky hand his heart, letting his own hand drift from from the tangle of mussed hair to intertwine with too warm fingers, wondering how it was that in all the wasted hours of imagining how it would be, that he had never imagined their reunion would be like this.   
  
He was certain that as far as first experiences went, he had never had one more heartrendingly exquisite.   
  
“You could have told me earlier, you know,” Francis said sweetly when Jos broke away to rest his head on Francis’ chest, weight heavy and welcome as they tangled together on the couch. Jos eyed him with lazy confusion until he clarified his meaning, “About the award.”   
  
“Oh?”   
  
Francis smiled affectionately in response to Jos’ yawned disinterest in having his judgement questioned, tightening the hold of his hand as he murmured sincerely, “No matter how many people may be in the room, or within my reach, you will always be the one I want with me in moments of triumphs, my darling.” He swallowed, thinking of the dark days of Ivan, when Jos had risked so much to protect him, touching his lips to the disbelieving wrinkle of Jos’ forehead as he murmured, “And in moments of despair...I would want no one but you.”   
  
In the stillness of the room, as his confession lingered in the space that separated their kiss stained lips, Francis admired the beauty of Jos entirely surprised, certain that he would never forget the first time he witnessed his devotion returned to him.   
  
“Really?” Jos asked at length, the roughness of his jaw abrading the skin of Francis’ chest as he spoke, gaze bright and considering.   
  
“Really, really,” Francis answered simply, smiling as Jos littered his chest with idle, distracting kisses.   
  
Jos snorted as he looked up at Francis, mumbling dryly, “How eloquent.”   
  
“My darling, when you look at me like that I am afraid all intelligent thought escapes me,” Francis said with rich desire. He laughed happily at the return of the beautiful stain of pink to Jos’ cheeks despite the rolling of eyes and the muttered refutations, silencing Jos’ denials of such ridiculous sentimentality with another kiss and promises of more.   
  
After all, Francis thought as Jos sought escape from the burn of Francis' feelings in the warmth of a renewed embrace, the evening was young, the champagne was still chilled, and Jos had yet to have the pleasure of his coq au vin. 

Loosened by the champagne and warmed by the unfamiliar look of contentment on Jos’ charmingly stern visage, Francis idly contemplated that perhaps it was obscene to enjoy something as simple as the brush of a bare foot over his ankle as he sat on his living room floor eating lukewarm coq-au-vin. His shirt was still unbuttoned and the cushions on the couch were overturned, betraying all that had happened before he’d managed to untangle from the lazy insistence of Jos’ embrace to tumble into the kitchen and serve the dinner he’d promised. He had intended to woo his reticent and cautious darling over the dining table, to serve him wine and touch his wrist as their hands met over his best china, but in the messy and artless tangle of their legs on his floor and in the much missed softness of Jos’ smirk he found something else entirely.   
  
And Francis had never been above improvisation when the script changed unexpectedly.   
  
It surprised him, a little, to find that Jos would want to do this, to balance a bowl in his lap, served with a side of aimless, purposeless conversation to be consumed just for the pleasure of it all. For Francis, so casual and warm in the rumpled aftermath of a rushed reunion, the taste of Jos at ease was a secret and rich delight. While Jos talked of his sister or the irritations he encountered in trying to broker international licensing agreements, Francis trailed his fingers down the long curve of Jos’ calf and listened, falling to into the keen rapport that had once been the bridge between bodies that could not touch. He hoped that it was not just the wine and fine food that brought forth this gentleness that hummed beneath the usual snap and pop of their words, feeling as though they were casting a different sort of spell.   
  
“Thank you for dinner,” Jos said with a smirk as his spoon clattered against the side of an empty bowl, “That it was free made it only more enjoyable.”   
  
“Such a charmer,” Francis answered dryly as he set the bowls aside and made himself at home within the sprawl of Jos long legs, “It's a wonder your dance card isn’t full every night.”   
  
Jos rolled his eyes and generously spread his knees further apart to accommodate Francis slow, deliberate crawl closer, staring blandly at the ceiling as he muttered, “I’m kept busy enough with our current cadre of idiots.”   
  
“So cruel to our poor Tulips,” Francis said, sliding his fingers through the still open collar of Jos’ shirt to circle the small pink mark left by an overly eager mouth, “And to think you want to saddle yourself with a new cohort.”   
  
Jos eyed him with smug amusement, hands spanning his waist to halt Francis’ sly sneaking into his lap, murmuring coolly, “I intend to saddle you with that responsibility, Executive Artistic Director and Talent Manager.”   
  
“Your generosity astounds me, my darling,” Francis drawled, rolling his hips between the flex of Jos’ fingers, before murmuring with greater feeling, dropping his gaze from Jos’ curious smile to the pale expanse of his throat, “But rest assured I shall I endeavor to live up to your expectations.”   
  
“Its not been an entire disaster to this point,” Jos answered coolly, though the slide of his hands up Francis’ spine felt slow and sweet, “You worry unnecessarily.”   
  
“Mmmm,” Francis sighed, arching into the caress as he brought his eyes once more to Jos’ face, “But we are about to tread on new territory, does that give you no cause for concern?”   
  
He watched the subtle play of consideration and concern in Jos’ gaze, glad for once to be held near while they weighed the possibilities of the future, closing his eyes and accepting the dry press of lips to his forehead as Jos murmured, “You should know me well enough to trust that I’ve weighed all the potential costs and found the investment worth the risk.”   
  
Francis laughed, a breathless rush of fondness, stemming the threat of audible giddiness by kissing the impatient curve of Jos’ mouth, pleased when Jos hummed and pushed his fingers into his hair and brought him impossibly closer. This time, with only the sound of the clock’s ticking and the low, unhurried moans Francis teased from Jos’ lips filling the quiet of late evening, Francis enjoyed an embrace with no destination in mind. It had been so many years since he he had been kissed for so long and with such careful attention that Francis wondered what secrets Jos had been keeping, beginning to believe that these hidden desires bore some resemblance to his own.   
  
As he could not show Jos his smile without forgoing the indulgence of a lingering kiss, Francis traced his thoughts over the rippling of Jos’ throat with the tips of his fingers and spoke to him of sensuality with the parting of his lips around an inviting sigh.   
  
When breathing became too pressing an issue to deny any longer, and the ache in his neck reminded him that no matter the evidence to the contrary he was not a teeanger, Francis abandoned the delights of Jos’ mouth to kiss the warmth of his cheeks. He laughed at the sound of Jos’ back creaking as he pushed away from the sofa, knowing now for certain that they were both entirely ridiculous and marvelous.   
  
“My darling,” Francis said merrily, voice roughened with amusement and arousal, “This is the best date I have ever had.”   
  
He buried his laughing lips against Jos’ shoulder, unable to contain his good humor when Jos’ rolled his eyes and attempted to disguise his telltale smirk of satisfaction by looking unimpressed.   
  
“Were you always this trite?” Jos grumbled, cruelly pushing Francis away from the comfort of his arms, though his eyes were bright when Francis relinquished his hold and settled between his knees, smiling at him from a safe distance.   
  
Francis smirked and patted Jos’ leg, certain that he had never been this  _anything_ , fluttering his eyelashes while he cooed, “Not at all, my dove. You must bring it out in me.”   
  
Jos snorted and pulled him forward into another lazy, smothering kiss, as though he was foolish enough to think that would do anything but encourage the swell of lust and affection building in his chest and simmering beneath his skin. Francis accepted this stratagem, allowing Jos the momentary thrill of victory as his fingers plotted against the remaining buttons of Jos’ shirt and made advances towards the zipper of his pants.   
  
He had only begun to wage his seductive war when Jos shifted backwards in a unnecessary retreat from his amorous intentions, forcing Francis to frown disapprovingly when he looked at his watch and muttered,   
  
“It is late and there is work tomorrow. I should probably go.”   
  
Francis, having rarely heard anything so ridiculous in his life, continued caressing the tempting inches of bare skin his brief battle had won and pressed a kiss to Jos’ throat, murmuring his disinterest in entertaining such a notion.   
  
“Or you could stay,” Francis whispered, letting his teeth graze the softness of a vulnerable ear, “And let me kiss you goodbye in the morning. To sustain you through the long hours of a hard day.”   
  
“Oh?” Jos murmured dryly, hands splaying possessively over the inviting roll of Francis’ ass as he snuck back where he belonged, “So I shouldn’t expect any...interruptions or unscheduled meetings during work hours?”   
  
“I’m afraid that my boss may not look kindly on such dereliction of duty,” Francis teased, kissing the lovely length of Jos’ neck and dropping his hand to rest temptingly in Jos’ lap, “He’s quite the slave driver, you see.”   
  
Jos snorted and wrapped his arm around Francis’ waist and giving himself away with the undeniable arch of his hips into the press of Francis’ palm, murmuring coolly, “I heard that he likes to play favorites. He may be inclined to overlook an indiscretion or two.”   
  
Adoring the sweetness of such a sentiment, entirely enchanted by Jos’ careless invitation, Francis smiled and touched his lips the corner of Jos’ mouth, kissing him for being so beguiling.   
  
“Were you always this much of a flirt?” Francis asked coyly, letting his eyelashes brush against Jos’ cheek as he tasted the warmth and salt of his skin, certain he could almost feel the force with which Jos rolled his eyes and scowled in response.   
  
“Not at all, my dove,” Jos drawled in a wonderfully horrid imitation of Francis’ voice, “You must bring it out in me.”   
  
“I’m flattered,” Francis answered softly, cupping his hand around the hardness resting against his palm, “To have made such a fine conquest.”   
  
“Presumptuous,” Jos said roughly, pressing his fingers into the curve of his ass, thumb drifting lower and pushing against the stretch of fabric, returning tease for tease.   
  
“Only if you stay,” Francis reminded him, sweetening the temptation with a last, deep kiss of promise before wriggling free from the possession of Jos’ arms, stretching his arms over his head and canting his hips in a slow sway as he stood, “But the choice is entirely your own, my darling.”   
  
He favored Jos with his most practiced and once sought after gaze before stripping his shirt over his head and dropping it to the floor, licking the remnants of too many kisses from his lips as he turned and sauntered away. He listened for the telltale signs of pursuit while standing in the entry of his darkened bedroom undoing the buttons and zip of his pants, touching a finger to the wetness at the tip of the cock that had gone hard and wanting the moment Jos had spread his hands over his ass and reminded him of all they had yet to remember.   
  
At the first touch of Jos’ broad chest against his back, Francis sighed his satisfaction into the stillness of a room waiting to be filled with the sounds he would win from a silent lover and leaned into the splay of fingers on his bare stomach.   
  
“You leave many decisions to me,” Jos murmured, dragging his hand lower to cover the idle stroking of Francis’ fingers and sucking at the hollow beneath his jaw.   
  
Francis closed his eyes and tilted his head back to let Jos take what he wanted, having always wished to give at least this much, intending now to give so much more. He pushed Jos’ hand down to curl around the heated skin of his cock and arched against the answering hardness nestled against him, luxuriating in the anticipation of ardor.   
  
“I wish for you to be certain, my darling,” Francis whispered, moaning when Jos stepped away to divest him of his pants and pressed hot, wet kisses down the length of his back, biting down sharply at the dip of his waist before standing once more and pushing him gently towards the bed.   
  
No matter the butterflies he may have sheltered earlier in the evening, Francis knew very well how to move his hips just so as he walked to edge of the bed, knew just what it was to watch a man crawl forward onto sheets on hands and knees, and wait for a lover’s touch with legs parted and breath gone quick and needy. He peered over his shoulder to take in the sight of Jos’ clothes shed with the swift efficiency that he so adored, arching like a cat pleased by a master’s attentions when Jos ran a single finger from the curls of his hair to the sweet dip between his legs. He murmured his appreciation, his wordless plea for more as he met the heat in Jos’ gaze, returning the sentiment entirely when he dropped his eyes to trace wickedly over the curve of Jos’ cock.   
  
Jos shifted behind him, hands coming down just beside his own, the bow of his chest to close to the arch of his back that Francis could feel the delicious heat of skin, tempting and taunting in its nearness. He held himself still, resisting the urge to derail all of Jos’ careful seduction, waiting and wanting to see what his darling would take from him, what he would give as they breathed slowly together in the quiet of night.   
  
Francis shivered when Jos kissed his ear, his eyes falling shut as Jos whispered so softly he would wonder in the morning if he had only dreamed such a wistful and wonderful thing.   
  
“If you are certain, so am I.”   
  
Francis nodded and twisted his neck to meet the searching sweetness of Jos’ kiss, sobbing breathlessly into the parting of his lips and swallowing the moans they both paid as the price for Jos finally bring their bodies together in the first flush of skin against skin. He marveled at how Jos covered him, lacing one hand with his as the other cradled his chest, supporting them as they kissed and rocked slowly together.   
  
With the hand that was not being held, Francis splayed his fingers over Jos’ thigh, letting it flex beneath the tips of his fingers with each roll of his ass into the cock pressed between his legs, sliding so wickedly over his own, reveling in the beauty of Jos’ body as it answered to him and him alone. Jos pulled away from the messy, chaos of their kiss to fumble through the bedside drawer with one hand, seemingly unwilling to release the twining of their fingers until the very last moment of necessity. Francis sighed and spread his knees further, stroking his cock as he watched Jos watching him with eager eyes, feeling a measure of their earlier desperation break through the slow sensuality that had dosed his lust.   
  
Jos littered his back with kisses to mark his return, teeth scoring down the ridge of his spine and sucking gently at the dip of back disappearing into bottom while slick fingers teased between his legs and brushed against his balls. Anxious, flush with desire, Francis thought of telling Jos that such consideration was unnecessary, but as he took in the look of determined concentration and pleasure on Jos’ face, he tempered his impatience and gave himself over to being spoiled.   
  
But Jos, so observant, so wonderful, took the sigh from his lips and pushed in two fingers, slick and deep, twisting and pressing him open as he wrapped his arm around Francis’ chest once more and splayed his fingers over the beating of his heart, thumb rubbing circles over his nipple. Francis rocked into the slow stretch and bur, moaning and craning his head to nuzzle into the edge of Jos’ jaw, urging him forward with the neediness of his sounds and the wicked, dirty touch of his tongue to the salt sweat of his skin.   
  
He stilled the steady rocking of his hips and the slow slide of his hand over his cock when he felt the first touch of Jos against him while fingers slid free and he listened to the rasping breath of a man at the edge of ardor. Francis slid the hand from between his legs to lay over Jos’ still resting over his heart, feeling the rush of his pulse of his joy and lust as his thighs burned and his back arched at the return of Jos to him inch by inch.   
  
“Jos,” Francis sighed without thought, low and thick with yearning as Jos pushed his cock fully within him and dropped his head to rest between his shoulders.   
  
And when he heard Jos swear under his breath, muffled words scattered beautifully over his shoulder, Francis hummed, smiled, and said it once more, murmuring, “Jos, Jos,” as he rolled his hips and laced the hands over his chest together.   
  
Jos growled something unintelligible and made his feelings deliciously and painfully obvious as he bit the tender flesh of his throat before, touching his tongue to the damage he had wrought before rearing away to slap his hand across the back of his thigh and begin moving in him with earnest. Francis smirked and bowed his head, momentarily supplicant as he dropped the hand from his chest once more to his lap, stroking his cock as Jos stroked forcefully into him, reveling in the dizzying feeling of Jos’ hips snapping into him. He sighed and pulled with each of Jos’ pushes, the rhythm of lust washing over him with the stretch and burn of a reunion too long denied. He was beholden to the sweetness of the way Jos whispered his fingers down the slick skin of his back and the sound of Jos’ broken breaths echoing off his bedroom walls.   
  
Francis’ arm began to shake from the effort remaining on hands and knees and he wanted to see the beauty of Jos undone, wanted to see it once more so he could banish the regret he had felt for so long when the image had come to him unbidden when he had touched himself on lonely nights when the wanting had been enough to overcome his better judgement. He wanted Jos to kiss him as he came, to spill his name over Jos lips and feel the answering rush of lust and adoration.   
  
He called to him, whispered to him in French and in the little Dutch he knew, called Jos close and clung once more to the arm that returned to support him, turning his face to press breathless, open mouthed kisses to Jos’ jaw, to his cheeks, searching for sweetness of his lips. Jos was against him, around him, in him, tongue and cock and hands touching every part that Francis had to give. He encouraged the recklessness of this unmeasured lust with the neediness of his kiss and the greedy desire of his body. He stroked his cock in time with the quick, short thrusts inside him, feeling the moment of breaking in their embrace as Jos stilled and sunk his teeth into the softness of his lip as he came with a sigh.   
  
“My darling,” Francis sighed as he followed in the wake of Jos’ pleasure and welcomed the heavy, hot press of Jos’ body against his own when the crashed to the mattress in a tangle of arms, legs, and satiated lust. The lazy fumbling touch of fingers against his chin had him turning his head to invite the slide of Jos’ tongue between his lips as they chased the remnants of their desire in a deep, heady kiss that lingered through the slowing of their breathing and the calming of too hurried heartbeats.   
  
At length, Jos rolled away from him, falling to his back with a great exhalation that sounded suspiciously like dry laughter. Francis smiled, admiring the long lines of Jos’ body, glistening and and loose in repose on his bed, wondering exactly what was so amusing.   
  
With curious fingers, he reached for the curve of Jos’ arm, tracing idle patterns over the soft skin of his wrist as he asked, “Anything you wish to share with the class, my dove?”   
  
“Nothing,” Jos said lowly, smirking at him as he brushed his thumb over Francis’ smile, “I had always wondered if you actually knew my name.”   
  
Francis nipped at the naughty thumb of a wicked man, sliding in closer and punishing that dangerous mirth with the weight of his body draped presumptuously over Jos’ lingering warmth, murmuring for the second time, “How very droll we are tonight,  _Jos_ .”   
  
Jos’ smirk deepened as dragged Francis atop his chest and so mockingly whispered, “Only for you,  _my star_ ,” that Francis had no choice but to kiss the lovely smugness from his lips for such wonderful blasphemy.   
  
But later, after a shower that lasted longer than the water ran hot and blowing the smoke from a shared cigarette out the window of his apartment and into the Amsterdam night...after he had taken Jos’ hand and pulled him beneath the sheets, when Jos settled on his side and pushed his fingers into the tangle of still damp hair splayed across the pillow, Francis fell asleep to the whispered sound of his name falling from love stained lips.


	12. Eirik

**Sent: January 17, 2013 @ 7:10pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: Were you going to call me back?**   
  
_Eirik-  
  
…I thought we were in the middle of something. But if duty calls, I’ll just have to wait until you miss your Denmark again ;)  
But if you wanted to pick up where we left off…well, I’ve got some other pictures I’d be *more* than happy to share, if you’d like to see more of my…tan.  
  
Or we could just talk. I like it when you talk to me, and not only because you’ve got a voice that will make a man want to beg (and, yes, I would beg for you. But that is nothing you don’t already know).  
  
I like to listen to you and all the hidden things you give away without even realizing. Before you freak out, I promise I’ll always keep your secrets.  
  
Call me anytime. For anything.  
Love,  
Jens_   
  
**Sent: January 19, 2013 @ 7:54pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: Hello? Norge?**   
  
_Dear Eirik-  
  
I’m in port again after a quick weekend trip—only old men this time, so no worries about any cougar paws trying get beneath my trunks—and I kind of thought you might call. Or write.  
  
But I guess the Tulip rarely stops growing and I know enough to know the Boss Man and Francis wouldn’t let a hot commodity like you gather dust on the shelf. That’s said, any time you need a good dusting...  
  
Anyway, I’m dying to read the next installment in the ongoing saga of “Eirik, the Epic Brother Cockblocker,” so don’t leave me hanging for too much longer! If you do, I’ll worry that you’re being prevented from adequately fucking with your sibling’s love-life, allowing him to get away with the crime of dating without brotherly approval. And as I’m practically family these days, I’ll have no choice but to pick up the slack and harass young Aron in your stead.  
  
I’m breathless with anticipation!  
  
Love,  
Jens  
  
PS – When it comes to you, I always am_ .   
  
**1/23/13  
11:38pm  
Message from: Jens**   
Drinking and wondering oh, where, oh where could my vicious Norge have gone?   
  
**1/24/13  
12:51am  
Message from: Jens**   
We should be sexting right now. Liquor, lust, and a shot of you would go down so sweet.   
  
**1/24/13  
2:35am  
Message from: Jens**   
Its no funb whn u don’t talk bac   
  
**Sent: January 26th, 2013 @ 2:18am  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: Did you go on vacation without telling me?**   
  
_Alright, now I am starting to wonder if Francis has had you tied up and gagged for some creepy ass extended scene.  
Or, alternatively, you’ve decided to throw caution to the wind and are currently hitchhiking your way down to Greece to surprise me.  
  
Somehow, I think neither option A nor option B is what’s really going down…..  
  
I know, I know! I can almost feel your glare and hear you thinking, “What the hell is his problem now, it’s only been ten days since I called him up out of the blue because I missed him, does he expect this going to be some sort of…thing…now?”  
  
And, well, yeah…I do want this to be some sort of thing. I want to get off the boat and come home to your email, like I have every day since Christmas.  
  
Hell, I just want to come home to you.  
  
So, where are you?  
Love,  
Jens_   
  
**1/28/13  
10:52am  
Missed Call: Jens**   
  
~~   
Eirik felt the buzzing in his pocket as the reporter from the Adult Video Network finally ceased asking his unoriginal questions and removed himself from Eirik’s reluctantly willing presence. It had been like this from the moment his film with Francis hit the Internet; a constant stream of parties and signings, followed by a parade of sycophantic or envious interviewers, leaving him time enough to do little more than sleep and eat. He would not have so readily agreed to the three ring circus but for the zero that had suddenly appeared at the end of his savings account, proving that there was something to the legend of Francis Bonnefoy. It was difficult to begrudge an appearance or ten when Bonnefoy had split his royalties from the film between his coffers and the Blue Tulip ledgers, particularly when lacking the humiliation of a stage show thanks to Bonnefoy’s cool retort that he was far too famous to provide free shows to anyone but his biggest fan.   
  
And while Eirik thought he could go the rest of his existence without being once more asked to smile, endure Bonnefoy embracing him, or answer another series of insipid questions, the barrage of obligations had provided a convenient excuse for keeping his fingers from the keys of computer and phone. For all that he had gone radio silent, Jens’ messages had not gone unnoticed or unconsidered. Much to Eirik’s chagrin, thoughts of the idiot and his absence filled the spaces between each photo shoot and interview. In the waning hours of the night, he had read and re-read Jens’ messages, unsettled by the strange nagging sense of anxiety he felt while he tried to decide what to say.   
  
More than the upsetting realization that he felt vaguely responsible for Jens, it shocked him to find that he was uncertain, somehow worried that recent changes would ripple from Amsterdam to the Mediterranean sea and rock the boat he and Jens had only just managed to learn to keep afloat. Worse still, for the first time in a very long while, with money in the bank and unexpected stardom, Eirik had reason to celebrate, to wish to share the achievements with someone who would understand, who could appreciate...and his thoughts had turned without invitation to Jens. He had been so close to calling, to letting Jens hear the rare tone of satisfaction in his voice, only to put the phone down and close his laptop, at once unsure of how Jens would take such news.   
  
It seemed pointless to lie, to hide what was merely a part of his work, and yet in the doubt he felt that Jens would want to toast his new founds success tasted bitter, reminding him of all the many reasons that this “thing” they had was an so often untenable. But for all his pessimistic rationale, there was an aggravating hope that persisted in whispering to him that he would never know, that they would never know if it was a bridge that could be crossed if he refused to risk that first step into the unknown.   
  
The sheer complexity of the situation, the irritating worry and the strange loneliness, was almost enough to remind Eirik why he had always avoided entanglements, but each night he had still gone home and let Jens’ words wash over him as he stared tiredly at the blue glow of the monitor. He knew that Jens would not desist just as he knew that he would not forever be able to resist responding. Even now, he knew without looking at the display that it had been Jens’ call he had missed while living this new part of his life, all too aware that Jens’ frustration was escalating to a point that Eirik worried if he did not bite the bullet and exorcise his concerns, the Idiot Dane would take it upon himself to do something rash like call Berwald.   
  
Or, God forbid, his brother.   
  
The horror of that possibility was enough to rouse Eirik enough to confirm that he had indeed missed Jens’ latest attempt at contact, pulling the phone from his pocket with a sigh that sounded so wistful and unfamiliar that Eirik knew it was time to do something before he transformed entirely into a lovesick schoolboy.   
  
Besides, he happened to have an opening in his schedule thanks to Bonnefoy’s earlier declaration that there would be no clubs or lounges tonight because he had other items on his to do-do list. In the quiet of his dressing room, with no more excuses at hand, it seemed Eirik could no longer avoid the glaring item on his own to-do list.   
  
It was time to let Jens in on his little secret and the cards fall where they may, Eirik thought ruefully as he booted up his laptop, unable to trust in either of their abilities to carry out a coherent phone call that pertained to French invasions of Norway. As the “Welcome” screen flickered blue and ready, Eirik stared at the cursor and wondered when how it was he had fallen into the trap of caring, words and actions caged by feeling and consideration.   
  
He could only be thankful that he was seemingly not alone in such a state of pathetic affliction.   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 11:14am  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: Re: Did you go on vacation without telling me?**   
  
_Jens,  
  
Calm down, Idiot. I am neither hog-tied nor traipsing about Europe. I am sorry that your fevered imagination ran away to such an extent while I was unavailable to keep your foolishness in check, as your initial supposition that I’ve been doing the Blue Tulip’s bidding was correct.  
  
Almost two weeks ago, the Studio released a new film that has been quite popular. More than popular, if truth be told. As such, Van Rijn has enforced an irritatingly thorough schedule of release parties, signings...well, I hardly need to tell you how we go about our business, though perhaps even you would not have been prepared for this degree of intensity.  
Bonnefoy reliably informs me that the whole ludicrous song and dance is part of stardom. Which I now seem to possess.  
  
As the former self-proclaimed and proud King of the Wankers, you can hardly accuse of me hubris for such a statement, and while I did not ask to be put in such a position...I find I have far fewer complaints than I would have anticipated._   
  
Eirik paused, fingers hovering over the keys as he weighed the costs and benefits of telling Jens the real secret, of letting his tenacious...penpal...friend...person...k now that if profits and royalties kept apace, he would have enough money to pay for the remainder of Aron’s tuition by the end of the year. He couldn’t say what he wanted to come of such a revelation, only that he knew the thought had circled endlessly in his tired mind from the moment Van Rijn had shared the projections and stared at him knowingly, muttering under his breath about Bonnefoy’s romantic heart. But to share such a thing somehow felt too much like a promise or an invitation and there was a hidden part of Eirik that wished for Jens to be pleased for him without any incentives.   
  
He wondered how loudly Aron would laugh if he knew that his brother had sunk so low.   
  
_One complaint is that I have in fact been too busy to keep better tabs on Aron’s exploits in Hong Kong but please do not presume to assume my duties. Rest assured that this is only a temporary set-back and I will be back on the path of proper brother management very soon.  
  
But you likely have no complaints, wasting away your days sailing and being glad-handed. You should not discount old men--you ought to know from the Tulip’s subscribers that advanced age does not equate to propriety. Perhaps you should keep a diary of your journeys and once you have finished lolling about the Mediterranean, you could publish a book.  
  
Though with your ridiculousness and exhibitionist tendencies, the experiences may be better suited for some ridiculous reality TV program._   
  
The idea amused Eirik enough to twist his scowl into the barest hint of a smirk as he imagined Jens and a band of type-cast idiots out at sea, catering to the whims of the rich and shameless under sunny skies filled with sex and drama.   
  
_I might even consider watching.  
  
-Eirik_   
  
For two minutes he let the mouse hover between the send button and the link he’d been both tempted by and wary of copy/pasting while he composed his reply. He knew that Jens was capable of finding it on his own, that his curiosity would be too piqued to let the obvious stones go unturned, but there was a part of him that wanted to show and tell, instead of veil and shadow in deference to Jens’ sensitivity.   
  
If he couldn’t handle this, Eirik thought coolly, ignoring the aggravation of doubt, then Eirik would know once and for all that there was no sense in wasting any more precious effort or emotion.   
  
_ps- Here is the link to the film that has stolen my time and given me a name. It is good work._   
  
There was a strange sense of relief to be found in the email disappearing from his outbox and making its way to Jens’ needy inbox. He stood from his desk and clapped the laptop shut with a sense of finality, leaving his cell phone to rest on top of the once more quiet and distance computer, desiring for a time to be as far from the Tulip and Jens as possible. Eirik left the safety of his sparse room for the rare splendor of sunshine in an Amsterdam winter, toying with the idea of demanding that Berwald separate himself from his Finnish boytoy long enough to have a few drinks in stoic silence that evening. It was only when he remembered that copious amounts of sex had apparently had the power to turn Oxenstierna into a smiling, almost talkative fool who would doubtless want to nag him about Jens, that Eirik considered that it might be time to negotiate a drinking arrangement with the uptight German.   
  
He walked the canals and peered at the dull gray water, so different from the cold sea he loved in Norway, colorless compared to the jeweled blue of the Mediterranean and so very far away from the chaos of Victoria Harbor. He wandered the streets and tried not to think of where the tides could take him next, now that the turn was nearer on the horizon, calling the question of what he wanted for his future. Christmas had confirmed his suspicion that Aron was never coming “home,” that he needed to resign himself to the knowledge that his brother would fly farther and farther afield and that it would be a waste of all his efforts to deny Aron the enjoyment of the fruits of their labors.   
  
For the first time in many weeks, Eirik sat alone in the Rembrandtplein and drank coffee, bitter and dark enough to stir him from exhaustion, and watched the tourists meander while he wondered if he would miss this place. Not that there was some imperative to leave, or a place that was waiting for him, but there was also no imperative to stay. He would be free to go anywhere he wished, do anything he liked, secure in the knowledge that he’d seen his brother made good. It was what he had always intended, but somehow in the intervening years of Denmark and Norway and the dissolution of professional into personal, his horizon had shifted and blurred into something unrecognizable.   
  
And as he drank his coffee and enjoyed the chill winter sun, Eirik discovered that much like Jens, the rare experience of having no idea of what was going to happen next was both disquieting and thrilling.   
  
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 3:23pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: RE: Did you go on vacation without telling me?**   
  
_Well....now I know why you’ve been MIA. You could have said something :P  
  
But I guess I know why you didn’t, since I more or less nixed work details. Would have been tough to tell me that you had the best lunch of your career with that bastard Bonnefoy. I mean Francis.  
  
And that was idiotic (hush, you!) because when I said I wanted to know everything about you, I meant it.  
  
I won’t say it wasn’t hard to watch at first...but then...well, I got hard watching and you should be feeling really fucking smug right now, Eirik, because that was goddamned hot.  
  
I’ve known you were special since the first time we kissed for the camera and I’m really glad that everyone will have to see it now--can’t lie and say I don’t wish it was ME who had made you a superstar (you stud, I bet you love it!)...but remember that you’ve always had a name, Norge.  
  
Love,  
Jens  
  
ps-- One day, will you let me cover you in ink and paint my name on your skin?_   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 4:14pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: Re: Did you go on vacation without telling me?**   
  
_I thought you wanted to do something new with me, Idiot? Wasn’t that what you bragged about not so long ago? That we could do any “filthy awesome thing” we wanted?  
  
Surely you don’t need to borrow from Francis Bonnefoy’s repertoire.  
  
(Impressive though it may be.)  
  
~Norge_   
  
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 4:53pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: RE: Did you go on vacation without telling me?**   
  
_Norge. Norge. Eirik.  
  
Old, new, any of it, all of it.  
  
But you’re damned right, I don’t need French to make a lasting impression.  
  
What I do need is you.  
  
So tell me something, now that you’ve returned to me from the Blue Tulip blitz...so I can know what’s already been done and I can do it better or do it different or just so I can sit around and daydream about how fucking cute you must have been when you were a cranky (crankier? Is that possible?) teenager....  
  
And since everything is so new for you, Superstar.  
  
Tell me about something old. Tell me about your first date or your first time or your first love.  
  
Love,  
Idiot Jens_   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 5:01pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: You need a hobby**   
  
_Honestly.  
  
I was never a cranky teenager. (Not that I am admitting to being a cranky adult, so get that irritating smile off of your face. Add cranky to your list of things that I am not--along with cute and sweet.)  
There wasn’t much opportunity for attitude when trying to ensure Aron was doing his homework and keeping that temper of his under control. I’m sure it would be difficult for a man of your social proclivities to imagine, but there also wasn’t much time for dating.  
  
(I’m sure you had all the girls and some of the boys eating from the palm of your hand...ah, the ridiculous follies of youth).  
  
That said, my first date was an older boy, a university student who liked to frequent the supermarket where I worked on weekends. He was charming and seemed quite worldly to a bored seventeen year old with a sullen younger brother. Occasionally, he even had something interesting to say, so when he offered to take me along to a party, I accepted because there was nothing else to hold my attention at that age in that town.  
  
It was perfectly normal and utterly ordinary. He bought me a cheap dinner and expensive coffee and we drank too much at a party filled with annoying people, and later, he kissed me with what I was certain was far too much tongue in the back seat of the bus.  
  
He persisted in pursuing me for several weeks, for whatever reason, since I never gave him much encouragement and at the end of our fifth date, I went back to his cramped little apartment and a single bed that had clearly gone unmade since the minute he walked out of his mother’s house.  
  
And when I woke up in the morning, I drank a cup of his shitty coffee and went home to Aron, entirely convinced that the experience had only somewhat lived up to the hype.  
  
This, too, was utterly normal and perfectly ordinary. Not everything in life is tinged in romance, thank god.  
  
Though I am sure you will tell me some grand, foolish tale to prove me wrong.  
  
-Eirik  
  
ps-- Have you given no consideration to my reality show idea? With this sudden interest in trite tales of human interest, I am increasingly convinced this may be a very lucrative career move for someone of your dubious talents._   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 5:10pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: I have a hobby**   
  
_Superstar-  
  
I’m not going on screen again unless you’re coming with me, so as admittedly awesome as being a reality TV god sounds, I don’t think it is in the cards.  
  
Good idea, though! I knew you missed watching me! (Just say the word and I will make use of this shitty Skype connection, so help me God.)  
  
Not that it matters, but I’m glad you got to have something “perfectly normal.” I know you told me to put it on the “not-Norge” list, but it all sounds kind of sweet.  
  
Even if you did have to wake up to shitty coffee! I can promise you that I’ll keep you well caffeinated.  
  
My first date, first time, and first love were all with the same person. He was sixteen and we were at summer rowing camp. When the camp finished, so did we, even though I think I have a letter or two that we exchanged gathering dust in a box at my mom’s house in Skane.  
  
And it was very grand and very foolish...considering I was 15, and everything at 15 feels very grand and is, in fact, very foolish.  
  
But I’m not sure these sorts of things ever stop being grand and foolish.  
  
Love,  
  
A Grand Fool  
  
ps--I noticed you didn’t say anything about your first love...._   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 5:37pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: RE: I have a hobby**   
  
_Grand Fool,  
  
I am not sure you should wear that title with pride. But, then again, you are Idiot Jens...  
  
If not reality TV, then what? For all this talk of the past, what of the future?  
  
If you were to keep me hypothetically well caffeinated it would require substantial income. These sorts of things need to be taken into proper consideration.  
  
~Eirik  
  
ps-- I did not. I have never been inclined towards foolishness, grand or otherwise._   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 5:58pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: RE: I have a hobby**   
  
_The future? As if you don’t know...  
  
I’m going to be a fool for you.  
  
And hope to be your first.  
  
Love,  
Jens_   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 9:43pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: RE: I have a hobby**   
  
_Idiot.  
  
That is hardly enough to live on.  
  
-E_   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 9:45pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: RE: I have a hobby**   
  
_But it is a damned good place to start.  
  
And I’ll still bring you coffee in the morning._   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 10:43pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: RE: I have a hobby**   
  
_A fool’s errand.  
  
How fitting._   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 10:45pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: RE: I have a hobby**   
  
_I love you._   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 10:48pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: RE: I have a hobby**   
  
_I’m going to bed. Van Rijn demands my presence tomorrow for yet another meet and greet.  
  
Eirik  
  
ps—I am pleased you liked the film._   
  
**Sent: January 28th, 2013 @ 10:55pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: RE: I have a hobby**   
  
_I take my coffee black._


	13. Eirik

“Anything interesting?”

Eirik started, nearly dropping his phone to the conference room carpet as he looked up with no shortage of "too early in the morning for conversation" annoyance" to find Berwald alternating between staring at his phone and smirking at him. Eirik tried to ignore the guilty flush creeping up his neck in favor of returning Berwald’s good humor with a filthy glare and shoving his phone in his pocket, where it could not betray his secrets.

“No,” Eirik drawled, shifting away with a huff when Berwald made himself at home by sitting next to him even though the board room was almost empty. “Merely waiting until Bonnefoy and Van Rijn see fit to stop wasting our time with these impromptu staff meetings.”

“Right,” Berwald said peaceably, though Eirik could see the traitorous corners of his lips still upturned in amusement. He held his breath for a moment in anticipation of Berwald pursuing the subject further, appeased when the Swede seemed content to sit in the silence they once both so valued before  _someone_  had been corrupted by Finnish influences. His opinion of Berwald’s current pathetic state of being was only confirmed when the other man looked at his watch, smiled in a way that felt far too intimate and obscene for public consumption, and promptly began amusing himself with a series of rapid fire text messages. Had Eirik not been more concerned about Berwald actually seizing the opportunity to wax Tino-poetic, he would have made a scathing remark about whipped puppies. He held his tongue and left the man to his happiness, fingers drifting back to the lump in his pocket as quiet returned. 

In this quiet, a temporary reprieve from the chaos that came with his co-workers, Eirik thought it might be safe to slide the phone once more from his pocket. Subtly angling his body away from Berwald’s shoddy vision, Eirik clicked on the photo that he had received at 7:30am that morning, very similar to the pictures he had received at 7:30am every morning for the past week. He wondered if it was a mistake to indulge in so many images of coffee when there was none to be had, but it was hard to resist the sight of such delicious black against the soft morning blue of a Greek sky.

(He deliberately did not review the message he had sent that morning in what must have been a fit of madness; his hand stretched out across a slate gray pillow as though reaching for what had been offered.)

“So, how’s Jens?”

For the second time, Eirik almost dropped his phone. He was beginning to suspect that Berwald had also developed a very poor sense of humor along with his newfound interest in conversation. For the second time that morning, he gifted Berwald with his most profound glare of disinterested annoyance, before exhaling noisily and giving up the fight he had lost against his colleagues and their curiosity weeks ago.

“Jens is well,” Eirik answered blandly, “As blithely cheerful and ridiculous as ever.”

“I’m glad,” Berwald said softly, smiling a little and nodding to Ludwig and Feliciano as they came into the room, followed by a still yawning Antonio. “Seems happy when I talk to him.”

Eirik shrugged and tilted his head against the back of his chair, letting his eyes fall shut and Berwald’s statement go unanswered, because there was nothing to say to something so entirely obvious. Instead, he remembered how the warmth in Jens’ voice had curled low and tight in his chest when Eirik had called him that first morning of picture coffee, barely awake and flushed with a feeling he couldn’t name, and murmured that if Jens ever brought him instant there would be no corner of the world where he could hide. Jens had laughed and he’d let the sound of it echo in his mind and rouse him from sleep until he had enough sense to hang-up and face the day.

He would have preferred coffee or laughter to Berwald’s grumbled, “We’re starting,” to shake him loose from the haze of his daydreams, as he blinked away the strange thought that Jens’ new tan would be better on white sheets than gray and discovered that the conference room was now full of his colleagues’ loud chatter.

Van Rijn rapped his knuckles on the table, aided in his efforts by an amused Bonnefoy, who seemed to take pleasure in Van Rijn’s reasonable irritation. Eirik straightened in his seat, still feeling vaguely obligated to act the role of model employee in acknowledgement of the continued padding of his savings.

“I’ll be brief,” Van Rijn promised brusquely, gaze flickering briefly to Bonnefoy’s serene expression before he cleared his throat and continued, “I have good news to share. Last week, the Adult Video Network named one of our very own as the recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award. So, without making too much fuss, we should all congratulate Francis on his considerable success.”

Predictably, the assembled crowd made an excess of fuss, cheering and clapping loudly enough to wake the dead, egged on by Bonnefoy’s joyously false modesty as he protested, “Oh, no more! No more, my darlings, you are too kind!”

Eirik clapped but did not call out, celebrating with less fanfare than the more enthused Tulips, rolling his eyes when Bonnefoy blew him an exaggerated kiss and declared that he could not have capped off such a marvelous career without the help of his loveliest Norwegian. He watched Van Rijn watching Bonnefoy and wondered if perhaps the once Big Bad Wolf suffered from the same affliction that had softened the stern lines of Berwald’s face.  
  
In the quietest corner of his thoughts, Eirik dared to question whether or not his own visage showed these same marks of feeling.

“Whenever we’re finished wasting our collective time,” Van Rijn said dryly as the cacophony quieted, “There’s more.”

“Is there?” Bonnefoy asked lightly, crowding into Van Rijn’s space in a manner that would have been entirely unprofessional anywhere but the Tulip, apparently caught off guard by the unexpected addition to the agenda.

“There is,” Van Rijn answered abruptly, the twist of his smirk giving away how much he enjoyed having one upped Bonnefoy. “And as we have all benefitted from Francis in one way or another…”

“Yeah,” Feliks interrupted with a snicker, “Who here hasn’t been touched by Le Bonnefoy? Anyone?”

Van Rijn’s smirk threatened on the edge of a frown as the room broke into giggles of which Eirik did not feel inclined to partake, no matter how deeply he had, in fact, been touched by Francis. The man in question appeared nonplussed, waving Feliks off with a wink and a smirk as his other hand came to rest atop the irritated tapping of Van Rijn’s fingers. Eirik wondered how much longer he was going to have to sit and listen to idiots.

“As I was saying, before my point was so eloquently reaffirmed,” Van Rijn continued after Antonio had taken pity on them all and placed a considerate hand over a loud Polish mouth, “Since Francis has played an integral role in the progress of the Blue Tulip, I feel we should all be on hand to celebrate his achievements.” Van Rijn paused for only briefest of seconds at the sound of Bonnefoy’s happy surprise, the hand on the table turning beneath the Frenchman’s hold. “As such, the Blue Tulip has purchased two tables at the gala following the awards ceremony. I trust you will all be able to attend.”

While Bonnefoy’s eyes were still wide and bright, Eirik’s own eyes were narrowed in annoyance as he considered how unlikely it was to be a pleasure to spend an evening in formal dress with an entire ballroom full of pornstars and their acolytes. But he supposed there was no way he could maneuver out of an appearance with his image and his profitability so recently and intimately tied to Bonnefoy’s fortunes. He was distracted from his despondent musings by Berwald’s elbow jostling his side as the Swede raised his hand as though they were in the midst of a primary school instead of what passed for a staff meeting.

“What is it, Berwald?” Bonnefoy asked without fully pulling his attention away from Van Rijn’s smug satisfaction.

Eirik could almost predict the question on the tip of Berwald’s tongue, could almost see a cute Finn dancing in his eyes.  And though he hoped against hope that it would not come to pass, that Berwald would not unwittingly doom him, Eirik was sadly disappointed when Berwald cleared his throat and mumbled, “Can we bring a date?”

Eirik thought about introducing his forehead to the smooth polish of the table when Bonnefoy smiled prettily, winked at Van Rijn and purred, “I certainly am, so Big Brother absolutely insists that his darling Tulips invite their beloved to my little party.”

Berwald smiled and started texting. Feliks shrieked and Feliciano clung to Ludwig. Van Rijn looked vaguely suspicious until Bonnefoy nuzzled his throat in a manner that was possibly unprofessional even for two people who scheduled so many one-on-one meetings.

Eirik sighed and wished he had stayed in bed with his JPEG coffee.

~~~

**Sent: February 4th, 2013 @ 10:03am  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: ** [ **aron617@hku.edu** ](mailto:aron617@hku.edu)   
**Subject: Your upcoming visit to Amsterdam**

_Little Brother-_

_I trust that it will not be too much of an inconvenience for you to take some time from your studies to visit Amsterdam and attend a gala with me on March 1 st._

_Francis Bonnefoy has the dubious honor of being awarded AVN’s Lifetime Achievement commendation, and as we are all expected to share in his moment of supposed glory, the owner of the Blue Tulip has “invited” us all to partake of the post-awards ceremony “festivities.”_

_We are expected to bring a plus one._

_I expect you not to disappoint. Please send me your measurements so I can rent a tuxedo in advance._

_You have my credit card number. I await your flight itinerary._

_-Eirik_

**Sent: February 4th, 2013 @ 12:33pm  
From: ** [ **aron617@hku.edu** ](mailto:aron617@hku.edu)   
**To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: You are pathetic**

_No._

_Absolutely not._

_~Aron_

_Ps: I know why you didn’t call. But I do hope you can hear the sound of my mocking laughter in your heart of hearts, Brother._

**Sent: February 4th, 2013 @ 12:51pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: ** [ **aron617@hku.edu** ](mailto:aron617@hku.edu)   
**Subject: That is no way to speak to your meal ticket**

_I did not call because I expected you to be in class. Or busy with…that person._

_I cannot see why this is a laughing matter. Nor why you have grounds for refusal._

_Explain yourself._

**Sent: February 4th, 2013 @ 1:13pm  
From: ** [ **aron617@hku.edu** ](mailto:aron617@hku.edu)   
**To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: You are pathetic (a detailed explanation)**

_That you require explanation only makes me laugh more. And I am laughing AT you, not WITH you, just in case there was any confusion._

_Allow me to elaborate on the many reasons why this little evasion tactic of yours is both pathetic and hilarious._

  1. _Who invites their sibling to a porn gala?_
  2. _I assume, using my impressive powers of deduction, that “plus one” was meant to imply date and as such you are clearly using me as a convenient excuse to avoid asking the person you actually want to see in a tuxedo._
  3. _I have better things to do with my time and “that person” than skip school, spend your ***hard***  earned money, fly to Amsterdam and be surrounded by people who have had the pleasure of your pleasure._
  4. _I can hardly believe I have to tell my worldly and wise elder brother who has so much ***experience***  that he is a total loser for being too scared to ask his boyfriend out on a date._



_When you fail, you fail with aplomb! You’ll forgive me if in this one instance I choose not to live up to your shining example._

_Aron_

**Sent: February 4th, 2013 @ 2:03pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: ** [ **aron617@hku.edu** ](mailto:aron617@hku.edu)   
**Subject: I reject your reasoning**

_There is no one in particular I wish to see in a suit._

_I understand now that you are clearly too immature and uncouth for such an event. I thought to broaden your horizons, but I see that you are content with assignations in dorm rooms. Consider my invitation revoked._

_Jens is not my boyfriend. Even if he were, he is likely too busy to come to Amsterdam.  
  
Eirik_

**Sent: February 4th, 2013 @ 2:26pm  
From: ** [ **aron617@hku.edu** ](mailto:aron617@hku.edu)   
**To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: I am going to start charging for advice**

_You want to see Jens in a tuxedo._

_You want to see him, period._

_So, please stop wasting my time with protestations to the contrary and ask him on a date. Talk about immature and uncouth._

_Too busy? For you?_

_Idiot. Idiot Eirik._

_-Aron_

_PS—Please go away until you have stopped being a fool. I am worried it is catching and I don’t want “that person” to turn me down later for our planned assignation in my dorm room._

 

**Sent: February 4th @ 5:43pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: March 1st**

_Dear Jens,_

_Thank you for the coffee. Would that it were real. I could have used it this morning._

_I have a request to make of you, though I understand entirely if you feel you cannot spare the time, as this is truly a matter of little importance but I can see no way around it…_

_Perhaps you have heard that Bonnefoy is to be awarded AVN’s “Lifetime Achievement” award. Perhaps, too, you have also been informed that Van Rijn insists the Tulip gather to celebrate his precious Francis at a gala following the ceremony. (I am not sure why our presence is required, but in light of my current stardom, it seems churlish to refuse.)_

_Bonnefoy has stipulated that we are to bring a “plus one.”_

_Once more, I am not certain I see the benefit to such an arrangement…but as I have no other choice…would you consider joining me on March 1st?_

_As my plus one._

_Please do not feel any sense of obligation—there is enough of that to go around with this ridiculous three ring circus of Bonnefoy and Van Rijn’s making._

_Let me know your availability._

_~Eirik_

**Sent: February 4 th @ 8:12pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: RE: March 1st (YES, OF COURSE)**

_I thought I would put my answer in the subject line to spare you any suspense._

_You idiot. You are fucking adorable. I wish I could kiss you right now._

_Of course the answer is ***yes*** \---I’ll damn well be the best plus one you’ve ever had._

_Mark me down in black ink and underline it twice. I am so in for March 1 st._

_Love,_

_Jens_

_Ps: Maybe you should come to Turkey with me and I’ll buy you a cup._

_Pps: I can’t wait to see you._

** Sent: February 4th @ 8:37pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: RE: March 1st (YES, OF COURSE). **

_Very well. It is a date._

_You’ll need a tux._

_Yours,_

_Eirik_

_Ps: For coffee that good? Perhaps it might be worth the trip._

_Pps: You’re the idiot, Idiot Jens. I am, at best, a fool._


	14. Francis

There were many things he had intended to say once the staff meeting had ended and all congratulations had been made, but now his lips were too busy kissing to form words. He had meant to say thank you to his darling, to tell him how his heart had hurt in the most delicious way, how he could not wait to see Jos in a tux;  but as soon as the office door had closed and Jos had looked at him with the beguiling smirk he still could not resist, Francis had forgone speaking in favor of pushing Jos against that same door and tasting that same smirk. Over the past week this had happened with alarmingly pleasant frequency: kissing good morning long after the alarm clock finished ringing, meetings conducted entirely through teasing touches and lips parted around lips, and late night conversations that began as an embrace and ended between his sheets.

It was a wonder, Francis thought as Jos splayed his fingers of the back pockets of his pants and squeezed, that they had managed to get anything done. It was even more incredible, then, that his clever darling had planned such a marvelous surprise and given nothing away in all the hours Francis had dedicated to rediscovering the many lovely secrets of his body.  

With the greatest reluctance, Francis licked Jos’ bottom lip in temporary farewell, once more needing his tongue to murmur softly, “Such a wonderful surprise, my darling. I had no idea.”

Jos’ eyes opened slowly, full of mirth and desire while his hands still roamed idly over the slope of Francis’ back and bottom. “That was the intent.”

“A mission well accomplished, my sweet. It is rare that I am caught so delightfully off-guard .” Francis smiled and ran his nose along the sharp and familiar line of Jos’ face, feeling his jaw twitch and tighten as he made his exploration.  “I look forward to experiencing future shock and awe at your very capable hands.”

Those hands slipped from Francis’ waist to his face, thumbs rubbing over his cheekbones, while Francis peered up at him with affection in his gaze and amusement in his smile.  Jos cleared his throat and brushed the hair that had fallen loose, sweeping it behind Francis’ ear as he said, low and rough, “I would like to let you in on another secret.”

“Oh?” Francis asked quietly, interest as piqued as his desire as he beheld the evident excitement that such a thought brought to Jos’ expression. “Another revelation? Do tell.”

Jos shook his head and smirked, pushing away from the door and breaking free from Francis’ grasp as the last strands of Francis’ hair slid through his fingers. “Not now. I have calls to make that cannot be rescheduled. “

Francis chased after a retreating back, wrapping his arms around Jos’ waist to bite the sweetness of his throat as he playfully chastened, “Such a tease, my darling. To whet my appetite and then deny me a taste! If not now, then when?”

“Come over tonight,” Jos answered casually, tapping his fingers over the hands Francis spread possessively across his chest. Francis closed his eyes and hummed softly against the warm skin of Jos’ neck, wondering what he had done to merit his first invitation into the Fortress of Jos since he had last set foot in a barren apartment still for sale. 

“Mmm, I would like that very much, my darling,” Francis sighed, disappointment and reluctance creeping into his tone, “But I am afraid I have already made plans for this evening.”

Jos snorted, apparently unimpressed by Francis’ obligations, muttering, “Are these plans changeable?”

Francis thought of who he was to meet that evening and the promise they had made, smiling softly as he kissed the back of Jos’ neck in apology and tried to smother his amusement. “I’m sorry, my treasure, but you must understand…a beautiful woman has finally agreed to giving me something I want very much.”

“I see.” Jos said dryly, turning within the span of Francis’ arms to push at his shoulders with broad hands and peer at Francis’ best impression of innocence. “And do I know this beautiful woman?”

Francis winked, shrugging his shoulders beneath the clench of Jos’ fingers. “You just might, my darling. So you can imagine that I would not want to disappoint her for our dinner date.”

Jos narrowed his eyes before releasing a long suffering sigh and offering coolly, “Very well. Come over when you’re done harassing my sister.”

Francis craned his neck to kiss the tops of Jos’ hands, murmuring as he tried to shuffle closer, “It may be very late. Perhaps I have much to discuss with the lovelier and kinder Van Rijn.”

To his delight, Jos let him crowd against his chest once more and return his lips to the hollow of his jaw, worrying at the edge of a scowl that would not remain turned down.  Jos’ fingers made their way to his waist, pinching him in retaliation for the sting of teeth that Francis always found brought out the prettiest red in Jos’ lips.

“I don’t care if it is late,” Jos grumbled lowly, eyeing the progress of Francis’ hands as they attempted to drift lower, “I’ll be home.” He grabbed the wrists that wished to seek out the burgeoning hardness against Francis’ thigh, shaking his head as Francis was pushed gently away. “Now I have work to do.”

“If you insist, my darling, I shall leave you to it,” Francis pouted but relinquished the game for another hour, a late hour in the quiet of Jos’ home when he could take his time and their time and make the moment linger. He kissed Jos as a promise of things to come, a sweet and slow embrace with just a hint of lust to be left untended to grow.

As he made his way for the door, Francis thought of the evening ahead and wondered what other surprises were in store, certain that he would approve entirely of anything that Jos wished to share with him, pleasantly startled when Jos made a parting promise of his own.

“But I do not have work to do tomorrow. We can sleep in.”

Francis turned from the door and let Jos watch him lick the wicked curve of his most agreeable smile, purring as he left, “Then it is a date! See you tonight, my darling.”

~

“Thank you very much for dinner! And for meeting me halfway—you saved me from the entirety of the wretched commute on the A27.”

Francis waved off Veronika’s thanks, smiling at her loveliness as she smiled softly at him and toyed with the spoon circling in her coffee. “It is my pleasure. I would have come to Antwerp for the opportunity to see you.”

In the arch of her eyebrow and the line of her smirk, Francis could see nothing but Jos as she pursed her lips and playfully cast-off his kindness. “Flattery, Mr. Bonnefoy. Such flattery and charm! I suppose that is what he has always seen in you!” She ceased the spinning of her spoon and smiled at him more gently, leaning closer to ask, “So, how is my dearest brother?”

Francis laughed lightly and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, admiring the color of Van Rijn eyes by candlelight, bemused that it had taken Veronika until the arrival of the check and the clearing of dessert to first let mention of Jos creep into the conversation. He hadn’t minded in the least, content to listen to her rail against the idiocy of certain customers (so much more open and charming in her disdain than her brother!) and tell her stories in turn of what it was like to grow up in 16th Arrondissement in Paris. Regardless of his heart belonging almost entirely to the other sibling, Francis knew he would gladly give over any affection and consideration to this bright eyed and lovely woman with the knowing smile and the occasionally sharp tongue.

She was a treasure unto herself, Francis knew, and he intended to tell her so ever y time they met even if she blushed and called him an old coquette with a wandering eye.

“Your brother is very well,” Francis said softly, thinking of just how well he had been when he had left him flush with desire and extending such precious invitations, “Though I think at the moment he fancies himself  a bit of a mastermind.”

“Brother has always believed he is a mastermind,” Veronika scoffed with fond derision, slapping at Francis’ hand as he stole the check away and slid a credit card into the fold, “What is he up to now?”

Francis felt his own grin turn sweet, knowing that if he looked in the mirror he would see a besotted man. “Ah, he gave me a marvelous surprise this morning! He has made it so all my dearest Tulips can join us when I receive my award!” Francis peered at Veronika, a wicked surprise of his own fomenting in his mind. He reached for her hand, kissing it gently as he murmured dramatically, “How rude of me not to have mentioned it at the outset of our evening! Would my lady Veronika like to be an old man with a lifetime’s worth of achievement’s date to the soiree?”

“You just wish to make Jos squirm,” Veronika giggled and flushed, spreading her fingers to push Francis’ chin away as proof that both Van Rijns’ were far too able to resist his allure. “And while as a rule I approve of harassing that stick in the mud, I shall decline this opportunity. I don’t think you want your evening ruined while Brother goes out of his mind trying to keep me from seeing anything too compromising. So let’s be kind, just this once?”

Francis laughed delightedly and shook his head in mock defeat, clutching his hand over his heart. “If you insist, my princess, we shall leave the poor man alone. “ He looked at his watch as the waiter returned with the receipts for his signature, wondering if Jos was already growing impatient waiting or if he made exceptions when it came to the company his sister kept. Certainly, his own curiosity had only deepened in the hours they had been parted, enchanted by the countless possibilities of what secret Jos wished to share. He put the pen down with a flourish and winked at his lovely companion, “But I may have to ask you to reconsider if your brother reveals something too shocking when I see him shortly! He has been quite the tease with all his well kept secrets.”

“You are seeing him tonight?” Veronika asked doubtfully, eying her own watch.

Francis nodded, “Yes! I leave one Van Rijn for the other. He insisted I visit despite the lateness of the hour as sly darling insists he has  something he must share.”

Veronika smirked and patted Francis' hand with manicured fingers, her voice a taunting pleasure, “And yet here you are with me while Jos doubtless paces his apartment and grumbles under his breath. I’m flattered, though I must insist that you get up from this table immediately and go make yourself quite at home before my brother has had the time to talk himself into some sort of egregious self-doubt.”

“I do not think your brother feels he has reason to worry after me any longer,” Francis murmured happily, the truth of his sentiment in the gentleness of his smile and the softness of his words.

“He does seem quite content when we speak,” Veronika agreed, standing slowly from her chair, “He is almost unbearably smug. I suppose I have you to thank for it.”

Francis stood as well, holding out his arm for Veronika to take, gratified by her blush and the roll of her eyes. “I am daily endeavoring to earn that thanks.”

“It would seem you are doing more than enough. I trust that my brother does his part as well!”

“Oh, my darling, yes. Yes…very much, yes.”

Veronika kissed his cheek as they passed through the restaurant door and on to the street, releasing his arm to reach into her purse and retrieve a small, folded piece of paper. She pressed it into Francis’ eager hands with a wink and a cheerful smile that was warm in the chill of night.

“Then perhaps you can make this for him tomorrow morning.”

“You approve of me spoiling him so decadently?” Francis teased, sliding the recipe for which he had come into his back pocket as he opened the door to Veronika’s car and prepared to send her on her way.

Veronika smirked and closed the door, rolling down the window as she started the car and bid him farewell with the loud engine rev, “Just this once, I should think. We all deserve to be spoiled by the one we love.”

And as he watched her go, Francis touched his fingers to the paper in his pocket and thought of apples and Jos’ feigned disapproval when Francis brought him such an indulgent breakfast in bed.

But only after they had slept in.

As he washed his hands in the bathroom that had once upon a time been the scene of a crime against real estate agent voyeurs, Francis was willing to concede that it had been well worth the wait. When Jos had answered the door to the apartment he’d approved of those years ago, already dressed for bed and hair still damp from the shower, with the lines of impatience in the crease of his welcoming frown, Francis lost what little of his heart was still left to lose. He had seen Jos in a suit and seen him as naked as the best kind of sin, but there was something in the unexpected intimacy of a black t-shirt and drawstring pants, in the expected intimacy of sleep that burned so sweetly.

Francis smiled at the happy man in the mirror, pulling his hair loose in anticipation of greedy fingers and ran his tongue over lips to wet the way for better men, before searching out his darling. He passed through the living room with its empty walls and shelves that whispered of a promise he had yet to fulfill. But it was so different now, Francis thought as he ran his hand over the back of the sofa and slid off his shoes, too aware of the echo of his footsteps in the quiet of Jos’ home. Now, if he could not convince Jos to fill his house with things, Francis would fill it with the trappings of his affection.

He found Jos in the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to admire the way cotton clung to long legs and the nakedness of toes against  pale tile. Francis stifled his laughter as he watched Jos’ fingers tap a commanding rhythm on a counter that was entirely clear but for the burbling and steaming coffee maker.  

“I do not think glaring at the poor machine will make it go any faster, my darling,” Francis teased, stepping into the soft light of the kitchen to lean against the opposite counter and peer out the window into the darkness of the courtyard below. He heard Jos scoff derisively and continue to ignore him in favor of willing the coffee into existence while he looked at all the lightless windows and felt as though they were the only two in the world.

“How is my sister?” Jos asked and Francis turned to watch his hands disappear into cabinets in search of cups. Francis unbuttoned the cuffs of shirt and thought about the taste of Jos’ skin.

“As beautiful and delightful as ever,” Francis answered lightly, accepting the cup that Jos pressed into his hand, even though he had no need of it. Tonight, Francis would take the coffee that Jos would make for him in the comfort of his home. He smiled over the rim of his cup, reaching out unencumbered fingers to touch a jawline newly shaved as the coffee scalded his throat. He let his fingers drift lower to feel swallows and a steady pulse, taking pleasure in the bitterness of the drink and the interested narrowing of green eyes.

“Glad to hear it,” Jos said coolly, generously leaning nearer to permit Francis’ wandering fingers to trace the collar of his bedtime shirt.

Francis smiled and set down his cup, sliding the coffee warmed skin of his palm under a loose hem to press against Jos’s stomach as he murmured, “And you still make the best coffee. Though I’m afraid I cannot say the same for any improvement in interior decoration, my darling.”

Jos shivered beneath his touch, but his gaze was bright as he shook his head and said, “You can harass me about such useless things when we return.”

“Return?” Francis asked curiously, dipping one finger into Jos’ navel to listen to the way his breath hitched, “Are we going somewhere?”

His own breath caught somewhere between lungs and lips when Jos’ smirk softened into a smile, a curve of confidence and hope to go with the words he spoke, “I’ve made my decision. And thanks to you it was the choice I had wanted to make.”

Francis flushed at the praise and wondered how it was possible that in the allure of Jos’ domesticity he had forgotten that there was a reason for this late night rendezvous, letting his arm wind around the Jos’ waist to hold him near as he asked, “And what have you decided, my darling?”

“New York.”

He thought of afternoons in quiet hotel rooms and smoke from a shared  cigarette blown out an open Manhattan window.  Francis closed his eyes and pressed his smile against the anxious thrumming in Jos’ neck and splayed his fingers over his back. “And you want me to go with you?”

Jos pushed him gently away, taking Francis’ chin between his long and lovely fingers so he could feel his heart go still at the seriousness of Jos' expression as he murmured, low and sweet, “I always said we could go back.”

And in that moment, barefoot at midnight in the kitchen shadows, Francis fell irresistibly and irrevocably into Jos, kissing him deeply and tasting coffee as he turned Jos within the firm grasp of his arms and pushed him against the counter. He kissed him with all the happy rushing of his heart and the warmth of his desire, the endless mingling of affection and lust in the parting of his lips and the touch of his hands as they splayed beneath Jos’ back and held him close. Francis kissed him for all the things he had never said and that he intended to say, stopping only when he felt the rumble in Jos’ chest, as lovely and distracting as the growing hardness pressed against his hip.

He pulled away to show Jos his kiss slicked smile and to listen Jos’ soft, rasping laughter as he whispered in Francis’ ear, “I take it that was a yes.”

Francis closed his eyes and brought his face to the flush of Jos’ cheek, stilling his hands to offer what he had to give.

“My love, you will always have all my yeses.”   

“Francis.”

Jos’ lips parted for him so sweetly as they kissed once more that Francis almost missed the whispering of his name, rich and rough with feeling. In the grasp of Jos’ hands around his waist and the desperation of their embrace, Francis tried to hear all that Jos wished to tell him, wanting to drown in the sudden flood of lust and love.

He slid his knee between Jos’ legs, trapping him against the counter as he welcomed the sigh that spilled from Jos’ throat into the depths of their kiss, wanting to feel every part of Jos, outside and in, to be held so close and tight that they could never be parted. It was romantic and ridiculous, but it tasted new and wonderful, his cock already hard and his mind half-drunk with need. Jos was rocking against his thigh and moaning lowly into his mouth, and when Francis pulled away to lick the hollow of Jos’ throat and fist his hands at the hem of Jos’ shirt, he knew there would be no more waiting tonight.

With a wicked smile he pulled the shirt over Jos’ head and tossed it to the floor, ruining the pristine clean that persisted in Jos’ tidy little world, laughing when Jos arched an eyebrow and asked him breathlessly, “Here?”

He shed his own shirt and leaned forward to bite the amused doubt held in the swell of Jos’ bottom lip, tugging it with his teeth as his fingers fell to the tie of Jos’ pants. “Here, my love. I am going to have you now. Later you can take me to bed and in the morning I will make you appeltaart and we can have each other all over again.”

“Ambitious.” Jos groaned and laughed as Francis dragged his pants over the hard curve of his cock and followed their downward progress until he was on his knees and the pants were gone, leaving Jos gloriously bare before him. Francis touched his fingers to toes on tile and cupped the hidden hollow behind Jos’ knees and dragged his palms up the shiver of firm thighs to rest beneath the hot, heavy weight of his cock. He peered up the length of a trim chest to admire the splay of Jos’ hands, taut with anticipation against the edge of the counter and the way Jos looked against the picture frame of the kitchen window.

“Always, when it comes to you,” Francis murmured, running his tongue over the ridge of Jos’ hip and down the plane from navel to the tip of his cock, kissing the salt slicked skin that quivered just so for his touch. He held Jos’ gaze as he parted his lips and took his cock into his mouth, letting his hands drift to Jos’ thighs, urging him to spread his legs just a little further, to let his body give way to all Francis’ wanton dreams. Jos’ eyes closed while Francis swallowed around his cock and tasted him on his tongue and down his throat.  He watched the flexing of the hands that held that counter as he kissed from base to tip and kneaded the soft skin of warm thighs that opened so beautifully for him and listened to roughened breathing and graveled moans.

Without taking his mouth from Jos’ cock, Francis slid one hand away to drop into his lap and palm his own anxious desire, fumbling with buttons and zippers to free himself from the ever tightening confines of his pants before reaching into his back pocket. At the sound of foil tearing, Jos’ eyes half-opened, gaze drenched in lust as Francis let him watch the slicking of his fingers.

“Really?” Jos mocked lowly, eyeing the discarded packet of lube, before his head tipped back in answer to the kiss Francis pressed to crown of his cock.

“Mmm,” Francis murmured, rubbing his cheek against the slick skin of Jos’ cock as he circled the tip of his finger against his ass, looking up at Jos with wicked and lovely intent, “I also brought a toothbrush.”

Jos’ dry laughter shifted into a delicious groan that echoed in his ears and made his cock ache with wanting as Francis sucked him and pushed his fingers inside. Jos was hot within his mouth and around his fingers, and Francis could not help but give into his greed, taking him ever deeper, pushing in further, wanting more and more as he felt Jos open for him. Francis murmured his pleasure, kissing the base of Jos’ cock as he watched his hand between Jos’ legs and brought his other hand to rest in his lap, stroking his hardness as he listened to Jos sigh and gasp, rocking into his touch without reservation.

Jos’ eyes were closed and his mouth was open, his fingers tense and taut against the white of the counter, his legs shook and Francis could not wait any longer to be pressed against him, inside him, to hold him close and taste his kiss. He stood from sore knees to be rid of the clothes that would keep him from the fullness of Jos’ skin and kissed his darling’s nascent scowl. Francis stroked his cock with a slicked palm and kneaded Jos’ hip as he turned him gently around, settling him against the counter and moving between the spread of his legs.

With a sigh of appreciation, Francis kissed the arch of Jos’ back as he leaned near to lace a hand with the fingers splayed over the barren counter. He ran his hand down the length of Jos’ side and down the curve of his bottom to tease him with fleeting touches that brought shivers to Jos' skin and made the fingers trapped within his hold scrabble for purchase. Jos was tense and ready, hot beneath his touch, breath already coming in short and sharp as Francis continued to play their lust to the point of breaking, sliding his cock against Jos' thigh. Francis looked at the window and saw the desire in Jos’ blurred reflection and wondered how it was possible for a man who had once thought he understood desire so well to feel this marvelously out of control.

Francis swallowed and wound his arm around Jos’ hips to stroke his cock as he pushed slowly and deliberately inside. He kept his gaze on the window to watch Jos’ eyes flutter open and shut with each inch he took, kissing Jos’ shoulder and murmuring nonsense until his thighs were flush against Jos’ and he was draped over his back, sucking at Jos’ throat and feeling the sweet burn of Jos’ body hot and tight around his cock.

“Jos,” Francis sighed, brushing his thumb over Jos’ knuckles as he stayed entirely still, taking pleasure in the throb of a racing pulse and the sticky cling of their bodies pressed together. Jos rolled his hips, cock sliding between Francis’ fingers, silently demanding that Francis move once more. Francis kissed the base of his neck and obliged, standing straight and dragging his hand up the curve of Jos’ arm and down the dip of his side to grasp a sharp hip, watching the slow slide of his cock in and out of Jos’ body.

“More,” Jos commanded roughly, groaning as Francis twisted his wrist and rubbed two fingers over the head of his cock.

“Bossy, my love,” Francis murmured and snapped his hips with force, laughing breathlessly as Jos’ hands slid over the counter and the sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the kitchen walls. Francis’ bent his knees to drive in faster, tightening his hold on Jos’ waist and admiring the arch and dip of Jos’ back each time he struck the sweetness within, feeling Jos’ cock jump within the circle of his fingers.  He watched Jos in the window and entertained his most treasured fantasy of one day capturing that expression of unrestrained desire for him and him alone on camera so he could have it always.

But it was not enough, the delicious clench of Jos around him, the beauty of Jos’ body coming undone for him, the muddled reflection of Jos’ need for him. Francis stilled his thrusts and stopped his strokes to place both shaking hands at Jos’ waists, pulling free from the cling of Jos’ heat as he said lowly, “Turn around.”

Francis surged forward to kiss Jos’ lips as soon as Jos graced him with the sight of his flushed cheeks and hazy eyed look of lust and consternation, licking away his frustration at the interruption with a wanton embrace while he lifted one long leg to wrap around his waist and waited for Jos to read his intent. He smiled into the kiss and slid his hand beneath Jos’ thigh as Jos’ fingers splayed once more against the counter, giving Francis just enough support to bend his knees and press his cock slowly back inside.  

He should have always known Jos would be his perfect foil, his best co-star.

It was difficult to move much in such a tenuous position, but Francis didn’t care, close enough now to take pleasure in their messy kiss and the way Jos trusted him to hold him tight and near until there was no more desire to be chased. Francis gentled the roll of his hips and kissed the flush of a smooth cheek, whispering, “Jos, Jos.”

Francis parted his lips as Jos turned his face to kiss him breathless once more, tightening around him and rocking into the soft, short swell of Francis’ hips, cock hard and wet between their stomachs. Francis felt the shaking of Jos’ leg around his waist and the desperation in his kiss, his own lust pooling hot and insistent, a wave ready to crash on Jos’ shore. He held back the tide and shifted the angle of his thrusts, titling Jos’ hips against him to slide in ever deeper, moaning as Jos bit down suddenly and sharply on his lip and came sticky and wet across his chest. Francis struggled to support the taut arch of Jos’ body as he fell against the counter, no longer splayed on the surface but grasping at Francis’ hair, tugging and pulling as Francis kissed him through his orgasm.

Confronted with such sweetness of lust, such abandon, Francis could not help but surrender to the waves of desire that washed over him, letting himself fall into Jos’ arms as he came within the hot clench of his body and listened to Jos murmuring his name over and over into the stillness of the kitchen.

Above the rushing of blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart, as they both slid down the smooth cabinets to tangle debauched and delighted on the cold tile floor, Francis answered in kind, kissing Jos until his trembling had passed into the deep breaths of satiation. He rested his head against Jos’ chest and hummed happily as Jos stroked his hair.

“I trust you are going to clean up this mess,” Jos said coolly, though the touch of his finger to Francis’ lips was soft.

“When do we leave for New York?” Francis asked, voiced muffled by Jos’ fingers.

“In two days.”

Francis kissed the tip of that finger and buried his amusement against Jos’ skin, closing his eyes to the sight of strewn clothing as he clung to Jos’ sticky warmth and teased, “Hmm, I suppose I can put it on the agenda. But there are other things on my to-do list, if you’ll recall.”

“True,” Jos said as he shifted and jostled Francis until they were both standing on still unsteady legs, taking Francis’ hand. “I believe you mentioned breakfast in bed. That should provide a convenient time for undoing this damage.”

Francis smiled shamelessly, raising their joined hands to nip at Jos’ knuckles as he murmured, “One must be taken to bed before there can be breakfast within it.”

He closed his eyes as Jos kissed him slowly before turned him in the direction of the bedroom, hand splayed against the small of his back as he pushed Francis away and said, “After you, my love.”

 

 


	15. A New York Minute

Though he would not have traded his memories of a first shared taste of the Big Apple, Francis could not help but be well pleased that for this return journey Jos had graciously permitted him to pull out his platinum card and make reservations at the Plaza. Not there had been anything wrong with the perfectly adequate accommodations his more pecuniary half preferred, but Francis had always been of the belief that work was meant to be tempered by pleasure, and the Plaza was so better suited to the reward of rest and relaxation. After long days spent traipsing about the boroughs or haggling with wholesalers, there was nothing quite like a very hot bath in a very ornate bathroom in the finest hotel in heart of Manhattan to sooth all the aches and pains of being fabulously successful.   
  
Francis always found this to be particularly true when the tub in question was large enough for two—gilt, ornate, opulent and rarely found outside of chateaus and obscenely expensive hotels. And now that his day of pounding pavement and following the purposeful stride of long legs had come to its conclusion, Francis had little compunction in shedding his clothing and responsibility before Jos’ ever watchful gaze, letting them fall piece by piece to the carpeted floor as offerings to temptation. After all, Francis thought as he dipped his toes beneath the streaming of the faucet, productivity and professionalism required the proper balance of lust and luxury.   
  
The water was wonderfully warm, the mirror was clouded with steam and he had a cold glass of champagne pilfered from the wet bar by to wet his throat just as the bath softened and wet his skin. The only missing piece of his pleasure puzzle was his hardworking and stubborn darling, who so routinely thwarted Francis’ best attempts to indoctrinate Jos into a life of dissolute indulgence.   
  
Francis sighed fondly and tugged his curling hair into a knot above the water that lapped at his shoulders, pondering how ridiculous it had been to daydream that his imminently practical companion would be so dazzled by the glitz and glamour that he would be reluctant to leave the charms of both the room and the man who curled beside him in the vast expanse of the bed. He should have known that though Jos had softened enough to allow Francis spoil them with finery, their business always came first. When Francis had tried to lure Jos from the path of righteousness with promises of breakfast in bed and champagne brunches, Jos had simply smirked and tossed the covers to the floor, leaving Francis wearing only a pout of affectionate resignation as he listened to Jos outline the seven different meetings they would attend while all the other lovers in New York flirted with idle enjoyment.   
  
He had lolled about in the sheets with such a marvelously high thread count it seemed rude to abandon them so perfunctorily until Jos was looking at his watch and clenching his impatient jaw in such a manner than Francis had no other option but to get out of bed and nip at the curve of such beautiful disapproval. Once he had left the warm cling of the sheets for the coolness of Jos’ regard, Francis had packed away his honey daydreams for another hour and followed the leader into the wild promise of the city.   
  
And though there had been no clichéd and sweet kisses at the top of the Empire State Building, there had been footsteps echoing in the empty spaces that could so soon be home to their next adventure. There had been the excitement of expansion and the remembered thrill of beginning anew. There had been the rare and delicious pleasure of watching Jos at his best, negotiations so sharp and precise France felt as though he had danced with him on the knife’s point until they emerged victorious from the conference room battlefield with concessions and Jos’ smug smirk of condescension.   
  
And when the day had finished and they stood alone in the last vacant room that whispered of flowers that would one day bloom, Jos had tugged him near and stolen a kiss.   
  
Francis slipped lower into the water, head resting against the edge of the tub as he closed his eyes and letting his happy exhaustion flow beneath the surface of the water with thoughts of theoretical futures rippling lazily in his mind. With the city chosen and the space selected, all that remained now was the not insubstantial task of cultivating the staff that would tend to the new garden. As he’d listened to Jos do what he did with such arousing proficiency, Francis had pondered and planned, moving the pieces of their first and best game on a now multinational chessboard, trying to plot the winning combination of players.   
  
The soft click-click of the bathroom door closing quieted his thoughts and brought a smile to his face as he listened to the sounds of bare feet tacking against the marble floor, wonderfully shattering his solitary soak. Francis had wondered how long Jos would remain on his laptop with Francis’s pants abandoned at his feet, typing away while Francis sighed and hummed his contentment loudly enough to ensure the tease and the temptation was heard. He kept his eyes closed and waited until Jos deigned to announce his presence, perfectly happy to let Jos admire the sight of body beneath the water’s blurred surface.   
  
“Hard at work, I see,” Jos mocked coolly even as Francis felt one long finger trace up the damp curve of his arm to pull an errant strand of hair. He hoped that Jos would enjoyed the way his skin shivered and tightened at his touch, that he understood how his senses craved such fine and precise attention after a long day of being made to wait and watch quietly while Jos used his talents for less prurient purposes.   
  
Though he hid his mirth behind shuttered eyes, Francis let his smile open around his words, murmuring, “Of course, my darling. I have always been slavishly devoted to pleasure, as you well know.”   
  
“After so many years of practice, I would think you had mastered the art,” Jos taunted dryly, fingers now splayed across the damp arch of his collarbone, dipping beneath the water’s ripple.   
  
Francis tasted a mouth tainted by Scotch in the kiss brushed over his parted lips and a felt hint of amused possessiveness in the press of a palm across his throat, a touch soft and sure as it moved with the gentleness of Francis’ breathing. The teasing stroke of his fingers up the curve of his cheek to the curl of his hair earned Jos his heated gaze of invitation as Francis opened his eyes and parted his knees, offering sweetly, “Perhaps you should join me in my lap of luxury and test the waters for yourself. Enjoy the fruits of so much hard labor.”   
  
“There is still much to be done. Calls to be made, paperwork to process. I should be working, not playing,” Jos demurred, smirk dipping into a playful frown as he stood from his crouch beside the tub and toyed with the button of his pants.   
  
Francis arched an eyebrow and wondered delightedly if perhaps the Scotch on Jos’ tongue had lit a teasing fire in Jos’ veins. He suspected it had far more to do with the thrill of a day spent wringing financial concessions out of New York stone than the taste of liquor, but all Francis knew was that he wished to see that deliberately idle hand continue to command his attention.   
  
Perhaps, Francis thought as he smiled slyly, Jos wished to have his pleasure bought and bartered.   
  
Only too happy to oblige, Francis lifted a finger from the edge of the bathtub and curled it once, twice, thrice in invitation, beckoning Jos back to the negotiating table. He fluttered his eyelashes and tapped the finger that called his darling close to his lips, pretending to consider his opening gambit. “Mmm, you are always so responsible. But what if I was to offer you the opportunity to do both, to work and to play, my darling?”   
  
“Oh?” Jos said smoothly; voice gone low and sweet when Francis pushed one knee above the water to show the skin that was certain to be so soon flush and wet against Jos’ body, “I’m listening.”   
  
Francis licked his lips and whispered conspiratorially, “Come into my office, my love, and I’ll tell you all my secrets.”   
  
“You already attempted to tell me those secrets this morning,” Jos grumbled dismissively as long fingers grasped the hem of his shirt. Francis would have been offended by the roll of Jos’ eyes had the action not been obscured by the shirt that went over Jos’ head and fell to the floor, leaving him to admire and appreciate the trim planes of a chest that dipped into pants that had become unbuttoned.   
  
Francis ran his toes along the curve of the faucet and winked lasciviously in answer to Jos’ lewd expectations, “Not those secrets, my darling, though I am always happy to oblige that particular curiosity of yours at any time.” He closed his eyes and settled his head against the rim of the tub once more, murmuring nonchalantly, “I was inclined to discuss potential transfers to the New York office…but if you aren’t interested…”   
  
“Do tell,” Jos insisted roughly while Francis listened to the pleasing sound of clothing rustling, imagining the way the soft lining of Jos’ pants would slide down the long slope of a toned thigh that he’d tasted earlier with his tongue.   
  
Francis smirked and licked his lips, tsk-tsking as he lazily opened one eye and rebuked his spendthrift partner, “Ah ah, my sweet. That would be giving away something for nothing. I’m still waiting for you to take a seat at my negotiating table.”   
  
“You drive a hard bargain, Bonnefoy,” Jos retorted dryly, coming near enough for Francis to drag a wet hand down the white front of his underwear, fingers painting little trails of enticement within the spread of his legs until Jos slapped his wandering hand away to shed the last vestige of the work day. “But very well, I concede to this term. Make room.”   
  
“Certainly,” Francis purred, holding out the hand that had been so rudely dismissed from the warmth of Jos’ inner thigh to assist Jos into the bathtub, laughing lightly as the water splashed over the edge to slick the tile floor, “I always wish to be gracious in victory.”   
  
“Then we are of very different schools of thought when it comes to conducting business,” Jos snorted and settled against his chest, giving Francis a marvelous view of his lovely legs bent at the knee and tangled in the sprawl of his own limbs. The water continued to tinkle over the sides as Francis cradled Jos between his legs and within his lap, skin so soft and sweet as their bodies touched from head to toe.   
  
Francis smiled and blew gently across the mussed hair that attempted to crawl into his mouth, draping one arm loosely around the tense span of Jos’ shoulders to drag him further into relaxation, “Most assuredly, my darling! Though I do so enjoy it when you are cutthroat and merciless.”   
  
“Is that so?” Jos murmured and Francis could feel the wonderful rumble of his voice through the press of his back to his chest, “I shall keep that in mind.”   
  
Francis laced their hands together beneath the water and brushed his lips against the curve of Jos’ ear, whispering hotly, “So you can use it against me? Drive me to distraction for nefarious purposes?”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
Francis scored his teeth gently down the dampening skin of Jos’ throat before laughing softly and sighing, “I look forward to it, my love.”   
  
“Of course,” Jos answered once more, though Francis knew he did not imagine the tightening of the hand he held. Jos cleared his throat and settled more heavily against Francis’ chest, head resting on the slope of his shoulder as he quietly continued, “But perhaps you should honor our outstanding agreement before we discuss any future dealings.”   
  
Francis closed his eyes and stroked his fingers down Jos’ chest, cradling him close and splaying his palm over the steady beating of his heart. “You are quite right. I would not want you to think I lured you into my new office under false pretenses.”   
  
“You do that all the time,” Jos taunted softly, grunting when Francis pinched his nipple in retaliation.   
  
“That is unfair, my darling,” Francis protested playfully, still delighted with each new discovery of Jos’ sweetness, “I almost always do such things in your office. And the pretenses are never entirely false. I don’t think I should be held responsible if a discussion of the practicalities of purchasing a new swing somehow evolves into a much more passionate debate.”   
  
“You are very persuasive,” Jos grumbled, as though it cost him dearly to admit just how often Francis found his calendar strangely empty of meetings at the lunch hour.   
  
“We are both masters of our trades,” Francis confirmed blithely, feeling lethargy and satisfaction creep up his tired limbs as Jos weighed him down in the water, “So good, in fact, that we find ourselves in this wonderful city once more ready to pursue our own manifest destiny.”   
  
“Coming to your point at last?” Jos taunted lazily as his thumb rubbed over the Francis’ knuckles and pulled their tangled hands to his lips to bite at the now water wrinkled tips of his fingers.   
  
“All good things in time, my darling,” Francis sighed prettily, settling his head against the rim of the tub and closing his eyes, letting Jos spoil him with little touches and kisses as they swam in the luxury Francis afforded. “But yes, I have been thinking about our little question of who, precisely, will be running this newest venture of ours.”   
  
“And?”   
  
Francis smiled at the easy trust Jos placed in his opinion and the softness with which lips traced a path up the curve of his inner arm. “Mmm, I think you and I both know that Alfred will soon grow restless in Amsterdam. His ambitions have always been greater than to take direction. He has such a craving to give it, to be the one who sets the agenda and sees others fall in line.”   
  
“So, you believe Alfred is the best candidate to assume your duties in New York?” Jos asked curiously, turning his face so that his breath ran hot and thick over Francis’ throat. “I don’t disagree that it would be our best option to retain his talents for our own purposes.”   
  
Francis laughed and opened his eyes to meet Jos’ interested gaze, “It will take more than one person to replace me, my darling.”   
  
“You flatter yourself,” Jos teased, shifting gently as the water splashed once more over the sides and onto the ever dampening floor, settling so near, Francis could feel the brush of his lips against his chin with each word he spoke.   
  
“Always.” Francis dropped his hand from Jos’ chest to push beneath the water and splay across his stomach, holding him as though they were tangled between sheets. With one foot he turned the the faucet, pouring hot water into the bath in the hopes of extending this wet and wonderful embrace as long as the water remained plentiful and warm. “Though I’m not wrong. With some assistance, Alfred will make a fine director and perhaps even a decent script writer, but we will need to rely on another to fulfill my more exploratory responsibilities.”   
  
“Ah,” Jos agreed quietly while Francis watched his eyes flutter shut, “Recruiting.”   
  
“Too right, my darling,” Francis answered just as gently, letting his toes run up the length of Jos’ calf as they dipped back into the water, “And I’d like us to consider offering the task to our dearly missed Dane. He’s always had a eye for talent, even if his attention had been too singularly focused. I believe with proper guidance, he could yield the Tulip a marvelous new crop.”   
  
Jos’ eyes opened, suddenly alert and intrigued as he argued, “Won’t we encounter the same difficulties with Jens if the silent Norwegian isn’t somehow also involved?”   
  
Francis smiled and thought of the look on Eirik’s face as he texted when he believed no one was watching. “I think perhaps it behooves us to make the offer and let those pieces fall as they may. Come the end of the year we will almost certainly lose Eirik’s substantial talents on camera, but who can say where he might go once the ties of obligation are loosened?”   
  
“A romantic notion,” Jos disparaged affectionately, “But with all that has transpired, for once you may be right when it comes to those two idiots.”   
  
“How generous of you to remember all my failures,” Francis responded with a suffering sigh, smiling despite the taunt when Jos pressed his smirk against his throat and closed his eyes once more.   
  
“It is part of my charm,” Jos replied sarcastically, “And speaking of my charms, have you considered who would manage my duties?”   
  
“Of course not, I only think of myself,” Francis retorted breezily, unwilling to confess that he had spent a good part of the afternoon trying to think of who could possibly be a suitable candidate and only coming up with one very unpalatable option. “It is part of my charm.”   
  
“In that case, I have a suggestion to make that you aren’t going to like, though I think it might go over very well with some of the other potential staff,” Jos said gently but firmly, leaving Francis with little doubt that they had the same difficult, horrible, but excessively qualified person in mind.   
  
Francis sighed and wished that just this once he and Jos were not on the same page. “I like your suggestion even less because I am forced to admit that you are right. Much as it galls me to even think such a thing, there truly is no one better.”   
  
Jos said nothing but twisted within his grasp to kiss him deeply, soothing the childish burn of his grievous feelings with the sweetness of his affection and the tease of long fingers pushing into his hair while they embraced. Francis hummed happily and thought that if Jos continued to spoil him thusly, he’d agree to almost any proposition, even those that insisted on intertwining his fate with certain sour and familiarly unpleasant individuals.   
  
“No New York ambitions of your own?” Jos asked quietly as he pulled back from the kiss and settled once more within the cradle of Francis’ arms, eyes closed and lips pursed around the question that rippled around Francis like the water that lapped against his shoulders and over his knees.   
  
“Do you wish to relocate?”   
  
“I do not,” Jos answered lowly, eyes opening just enough that Francis could see the hint of lovely and familiar green.   
  
Francis smiled gently and shook his head, hair spilling over the edge of the tub while he murmured, “Then I have no greater ambitions than a carriage ride through Central Park.”   
  
Jos laughed, a sharp rush of airy amusement as his eyes closed once more and his lips slanted into a smirk of satisfaction, “You’ll have to settle for a walk on the way to our next meeting.”   
  
Francis brushed his wet lips over the furrow in Jos’ brow and searched for his hand beneath the water, floating his palm just above the splay of Jos’ fingers on his thigh. “Can we hold hands while we walk?”   
  
Jos’ fingers slid between his, wrinkled and softened by indulgence. “We can.”   
  
“Then it is a deal, my darling.”


	16. Francis

_Excerpt from the interview of Francis B. and Eirik A. from the Blue Tulip Studios:_  
  
 _Reporter: So, Francis…you and Eirik almost burned down the set with that chemistry. Is there something going on between the two of you offset? Maybe the occasional after hours encounter in the steamroom._  
  
 _Eirik A: Absolutely not. Bonnefoy is my boss, not my boyfriend._  
  
 _Francis B: While I am delighted that you found our performance so convincing, I’m happy to say that my affections belong entirely to another._  
  
 _Report: Tell us, Eirik. If Francis isn’t your boyfriend, is there another lucky fellow who gets to play that role for you off-camera?_  
  
It had been another whirlwind day of meet and greets and interviews in the hectic and wonderfully entertaining run-up to the Adult Video Network’s Annual European Awards. The hotel was crawling with industry professionals and their ilk, so many of whom wanted a moment in the sun with the golden boy of lifetime achievement. Francis had been happy enough to give what he could of his time and attention, the Tulip and the mystery of the new studio with each flip of his hair and lick of his lips as he answered question after question and gave smile after smile. It was exhausting to be sure and Francis felt as though he had not stopped moving since Manhattan, hardly able to take proper advantage of the new ease and fondness in Jos’ touch or the smugness of Jos’ smirk each time Francis turned another overzealous admirer away.   
  
But business was business and Francis knew enough to know that this was likely his last big turn about the dance floor, one last flash of bright and heady stardom before he turned the sky over to the young and new.   
  
He had possessed amusement and energy enough to smooth out the wrinkles of Eirik’s displeasure at being asked to do a joint press conference for their film, which remained the highest grossing release on the pornographic charts. Everything had been going swimmingly, if predictably, until one intrepid fellow had dared to ask questions that went beyond the professional and veered into the personal. Francis had been amused by the unexpected interest in who he bedded when the cameras were off and coyly entertained the inquiry with a veiled admission that he was most assuredly off the market and only available for general purchase via the Blue Tulip website. His coquetry had been lost in the ensuing titillation over to Eirik’s pinch-mouthed admission that he might in fact be slightly less than single, which was quickly followed by a string of aspersions cast on the intelligence of contemporary journalism.   
  
Truly, there never was a dull moment in the Blue Tulip world, Francis thought fondly as he pushed through the throng of reporters and hangers-on eager to extract more dirt on Eirik’s mystery lover from Francis’ lips. But Francis was no more interested in spilling Eirik’s wonderful secret than he was his own and so he left the rakers of lurid muck to their all too accurate speculation.   
  
Really, Eirik should not have protested quite so viciously at the thought of a Denmark-Norway reunion, his vehemence giving him away as surely as the faint redness on his ears. But Francis had better things to do than give some blogger a juicy treat or amuse himself with thoughts of Eirik’s endearing predictability. He left the conference room and made for the hotel elevators without stopping for flattery or conversation, impatient to discover the reason why Jos had stood up in the midst of his interview and given him such a look that his toes had curled in shoes before sauntering out of the room and leaving Francis alone with the curious masses.   
  
Wondering what he had said, what he had done to earn such an unexpected look of pure invitation, Francis slid the key card into the door and prepared to wring the reason from Jos’ stony and reticent lips. All temptation to speak faded as quickly as his other scruples when he opened the door to discover that the invitation issued across a crowded conference room apparently still stood. Francis smiled into the unexpected dimness of their hotel room, the curtains drawn despite the early hour of the afternoon and decided to forgive Jos his disappearance as he stood in the entry away and admired the pale and lovely skin of a body clothed only in black briefs.  His hair was slick with the wetness of a recent shower and Francis wished to lick the water that still trailed the clenched line of his jaw and pluck the unlit cigarette from his fingers.  
  
But there was something in the false afternoon darkness and the tension in Jos’ shoulders that stilled his feet from moving closer to touch his hands the softness of still damp skin. And when Francis traced his tongue over the curious curve of his smile and met Jos’ unwavering and silent stare of welcome, there was something in the sharpness of Jos’ smirk that stirred his desire to thick anticipation. He had seen this expression many times before—Jos’ chill and merciless look of confidence, the face he wore just before he claimed victory in negotiations or bent the business world to his will. Francis had seen it, had lusted for it, had loved this face in the boardrooms of Paris, Amsterdam, and New York…but never before had he had such beautiful and damning attention turned to him without reservation.  
  
Francis wondered if the poor souls who gave up every good advantage to Jos’ calculations wished for their domination as dearly as Francis did in this moment, pinned and willing beneath Jos’ gaze.   
  
“Finished already?” Jos said calmly as he stood from the edge of the bed, discarding the smoke to stretch his arms over his head and give Francis a marvelous show of all the skin that he hoped would soon be pressed against him, slick and sweet and unforgiving.   
  
“Mmm, yes. I think that dear Eirik gave the press enough fodder to keep them interested for several days at least. They forgot about me in all the excitement.” Francis answered lightly, toeing off his shoes while Jos stalked closer, feeling his pulse quicken at the gait of repressed aggression and excitement. The allure of Jos’ eagerness was like a lure, the rare show of unrestrained initiative a bait almost too delicious to resist, and yet Francis remained perfectly still, waiting for Jos to show the moves to this new game he wished Francis to play.   
  
He wanted to know what it was that had made Jos so certain, so intent in his obvious desire for Francis.   
  
“I found your interview quite interesting,” Jos breathed softly, a bare rasp to match the nakedness of his gaze as he circled Francis in the barren hallway of their hotel room, standing so close Francis could feel the warmth of his breath and smell the tang of soap.  
  
Francis resisted the need to erase the distance between his greedy hands and Jos’ chest, leaning nearer without touching to whisper, “I am glad you thought so, my darling.”   
  
He gasped delightedly at the sudden onslaught of Jos’ body against his, long arms wrapped around his back and insistent, cruel fingers pulling at his hair until his head was tilted so far back he was peering helplessly into the face of Jos’ victorious arrogance. There was no softness in the hands tangled in his hair, no softness in the cock pressed against his thigh, and no gentleness or hesitation in the bruise of a kiss that stole his breath and gave only lust in return.   
  
Francis moaned shamelessly when Jos sucked on his bottom lip and tugged his hair so sharply the pleasured pain of it burned in his cock and he wondered if Jos had ever kissed him like this, entirely without consideration, parting his lips to the filthy slide of Jos’ tongue over his own in a twisted and unrelenting embrace. And when he tried to touch his hand to Jos’ cheek, to feel the flush of his desire, Jos abandoned the devastation of his hair to capture his wrist and drag his teeth down his palm, shaking his head as he met Francis’ gaze with hungry eyes and murmured, “My darling.”   
  
“Yes, yes,” Francis agreed breathlessly as the pieces of Jos’ puzzle came together. Francis closed his eyes and arched into slow slide of Jos’ lips up the curve of his throat, sighing lowly as he remembered the answer he’d given so casually, so easily, so honestly, regretting that he had not declared such a thing openly before if this torrent of passion was the reward he received for his confession.   
  
Francis was very, very happy to play such a marvelous game, surrendering to the hold of Jos’ fingers around his wrist and pulling of his hair, letting Jos take every inch of his mouth with the relentlessness of his biting kiss. In the seconds that he had to breathe, in the the infinitesimal space Jos granted between the cling of their bodies, Francis splayed his palm over Jos’ cock, already so hard and damp beneath the cotton of his underwear. Jos retaliated by sucking at the hollow of his throat and pushing his knee between Francis’ legs to make him make him moan with the cruelty of such a deliberate tease.   
  
For this, for the feeling of Jos’ smile sliding over his lips and the drag of Jos’ thigh against his cock and the possessive tangle of fingers in his hair, Francis would gladly give himself away, gladly declare to the world that there was someone to whom he belonged.   
  
Francis brushed a happy kiss of supplication to the victorious twist of Jos’ smirk, sliding his lips to Jos’ ear to whisper, “Your darling, your beloved, your ready and willing whore.”   
  
The grip of Jos’ hands on his collar as he was dragged to the bed was so tight Francis thought his feet might leave the ground and that his breath would never escape, only to have it forced from his lungs in a great rush of exhalation when Jos tumbled him to the sheets and straddled his waist. Francis moaned and arched into the hand that cupped him between his legs, trying and failing to reach for Jos’ waist to steady him over his lap.  
  
“That’s right,” Jos murmured, trapping Francis’ wrists above his head with the hand that was was not kneading his thigh and reaching for his button and zipper. “You would do anything I asked, wouldn’t you? Because you are mine.”  
Francis nodded wordlessly, licking Jos’ jaw as he leaned down to press his mouth over the thrumming of his pulse and leave a sharp, bitten mark of adoration on Francis’ skin. Francis’ fingers flexed with happy helplessness above his head and his lips parted readily to the slick slide of Jos’ tongue as he sighed into his kiss and thrust into the first touch of fingers against the new bareness of his cock. He opened his eyes to admire the long splay of Jos’ legs over his hips, such wonderful pale and toned limbs that flexed taut each time Francis pushed his cock into the circle of Jos’ hand and submitted to the insistence of Jos’ kiss.   
  
There was never a time when Francis did not desire Jos’ touch, when he did not crave the fullness of his attention and the calculated sweetness of his affection….but in this moment, held captive to Jos’ whims, pinned beneath the presumptuous and demanding weight of his body and the desperation of his lust, Francis felt all his unspoken and darkest desires laid bare.   
  
Abruptly, Jos pulled away, mouth as wet and swollen as his gaze was narrowed with lust and intent. Francis gasped for breath and risked bringing his suddenly free hands to his shirt, and as no fingers slapped at his progress, fumbled to undo the buttons, wishing to be as naked as possible before Jos returned to stake his claim. As he watched Jos rise up to slide his underwear from his hips and over the swell of his cock, down the slope of his firm thighs and down the neverending length of his legs, Francis licked his lips and hoped that Jos would slide back up his body and push his cock into his mouth, let Francis swallow him deep and taste the salt and heat of his skin.  
  
“Not now,” Jos muttered, discarding the briefs over the side of the bed in a rare sacrifice of order and neatness to the demands of passion.   
  
Jos met his gaze with a knowing smirk and raked his nails over Francis’ nipples, stroking his cock and rubbing his thumb over the tip to spread the wetness that his touch had wrought. Francis smiled and reached for Jos, managing to drag a solitary finger up the curve of his shaft before Jos slapped his hand away with a sharp and playful rebuke.  
  
“Forgive me, darling,” Francis purred, holding his hands out in surrender before settling them gently on the cut of Jos’ hips, moaning with the kind of obscene pleasure he’d once reserved for the best of his films when Jos spread his legs just a little further and settled fully in Francis’ lap. “When it comes to you, I simply cannot help myself.”   
  
His shirt was still on his shoulders and Jos had only deigned to pull his pants low enough to free his hard and aching cock, but there was no time to mourn that he would not be as naked as his darling overlord when Jos returned to him with lips full of demands that kissed him deeply once more. Francis rocked his hips into the slow, rolling grind of Jos’ ass over his lap, pushing his cock into the temptation that Jos offered, whispering a quiet prayer to Eros as he fell ever more desperately in love.   
  
“I suffer from the same misfortune,” Jos whispered harshly against his mouth, scraping his teeth over his lip and down his chin before reaching towards the little drawer of the bedside table. “But it balances the books, somehow, to know you are similarly afflicted.”  
  
Francis brushed pleading kisses to Jos’ chest, to his neck, and cheeks, touching every distracted inch of his skin as he continued to slide his cock within the clench of Jos’ thighs. He arched into the feeling of Jos straddling him, lovely long legs bent over his thighs as he lorded over Francis, naked and resplendent and entirely in control. Francis bid his will a merry farewell and joyfully resigned himself to playing the submissive role in Jos’ screenplay of desire, leveled by the thrill of lust that raced up his spine as he watched Jos reach between his legs and press two fingers behind the heavy flush of his cock.   
  
He would have begged to be the one to do such things, to have the pleasure and the indulgence of feeling his his body open to Francis’ touch, but there was something so crushing and irresistible in watching Jos dictate every movement of this dance, to know that he was expected to do nothing more than answer the call of Jos’ lust. He had not predicted that this would be how Jos would have him, how Jos would stake his claim and render Francis entirely his own…and Francis did so enjoy surprises.   
  
He watched the folding of Jos’ lip between his teeth as he writhed in Francis’ lap and took his pleasure without asking, without waiting. And when Jos’ eyes fluttered shut, arching forward and groaning lowly, Francis could not help but scramble up from his pillowed prison to taste the bliss on Jos’ lips, stealing what passion he could before Jos shoved him down.   
  
“Stay where you are,” Jos ordered, speaking in rasping, guttural Dutch as he assured Francis’ ready compliance by circling Francis’ cock with slick fingers and stroking roughly. Francis bit his lip and pushed his head against the pillow, hands reaching once more for Jos’ hardness, gratified that his exacting darling permitted such an indulgence as he struggled to cling to a measure of control when Jos splayed one hand over his chest and spread his knees to lower himself over Francis’ cock.   
  
He kept his eyes on the beauty of Jos’ face as he felt the first sear of heat and listened to the slow, hissing curse of pleasure that escaped from Jos’ throat, letting himself be taken in so slowly, so deliberately there was nothing he could do but wait and admire. And when Jos was flush against him with cheeks stained red with exertion and lips parting around low and breathless sighs, Francis tried to recall the last time he wanted to be touched so desperately, to have every inch of his bare skin ravaged and ruined so there was no part of his body that would not remember the warmth of grasping hands nor the purpled sting of an urgent mouth.    
  
“I am yours to command, yours to exploit, yours to use however you will,” Francis promised, reaching for the hand trembling atop his chest to bring fingers to his supplicant mouth and kiss each tip. Jos began to move above him, eyes still closed as Francis’ cock slipped in and out of his body and Francis sighed with each renewed clench and shudder of Jos around him. “Whatever you wish, you may have it, my love.”   
  
Francis parted his lips to welcome the press of Jos thumb into his mouth, rolling his hips in time with the rock of Jos’ hips and holding the wickedness of a green-eyed gaze that burned through him as surely as the tight heat around his cock. He dragged his palm down Jos’ shaft and stroked the crown his cock while lust curled his toes in the sheets and pulled moans from his throat that echoed off the hotel room walls. Their skin was sticky with sweat and warmth when Jos lowered himself to kiss Francis’ yearning mouth, pressing their chests together as his thighs flexed around Francis’ hips with such calculated cruelty that Francis despaired at his ability to last much longer under such an onslaught.   
  
“I want you to come,” Jos murmured, sucking on his earlobe as he pushed down on Francis’ cock and fumbled for the bottle of discarded lubricant. “And after you come, I want to fuck you.”   
  
Francis moaned and arched into Jos’ thrust, so drunk on the wicked beauty of such a suggestion that he sucked Jos’ tongue into his mouth and thought of the Jos’ cock inside of him while he still shook and sighed with the pleasure of orgasm.   
  
“Yes, my darling,” Francis whispered thoughtlessly when Jos pulled away from his greedy kiss of approval to stroke his cock with slick fingers and continue to roll his hips over Francis’ lap. Francis shuddered and slid his hand over Jos’ and then down the warm, wet skin of his thighs to chart a path to the hollow his knee. Francis tucked his fingers in that hidden and precious space and closed his eyes, giving himself to the sensation of Jos driving him to the edge as he confessed,  “I want that, too.”  
  
He felt Jos’ tongue trace the curve of his jaw, felt the press of his chest and the tremble in Jos’ thighs, before he tasted the sweetness of a kiss given by a satisfied mouth and heard the wanton taunt, “Then do as I say and I’ll give you what you want.”   
  
Francis smiled and sunk his teeth into Jos’ shoulder as he decided that he had never been so delighted to follow directions, digging his hands into Jos’ hips and forcing him down as he thrust his cock so deeply he hoped they would both feel it the next evening as they listened to the singing of Francis’ praises and came with a low, rushed moan.   
  
Jos kissed away what little breath he had left to give, twining their tongues together as Francis fell from his body with broken sighs of satiation and deliberate murmurs for, “more, more, more.”   
  
From beneath the tides of pleasure, Francis could feel Jos making good on his intentions, climbing away to pull Francis’ legs over his  bent knees and drag him down the bed. Loose and warm, Francis opened his eyes to find that now he was spread open on Jos’ lap and he regretted that he would not have the opportunity to touch the wetness on Jos’ thighs until he felt the press of Jos’ thumb against his ass.   
  
Francis laughed breathlessly, licking his bruised lips as he caught Jos’ determined and lusty gaze and tossed his arms over his head and arched his back. “Such consideration is unnecessary.”   
  
Jos smirked and removed his hand, shrugging his shoulders before encumbering them with Francis’ legs and pushed forward to bend Francis over almost double, kissing him almost chastely as he said, “In that case, I shall take what I want.”   
  
Francis cupped his jaw and wondered if Jos could feel the shaking of his legs as he pushed inside, reveling in the stretch and burn and tremble of too recent pleasure, swallowing the moans that Jos poured into his mouth as they came together once more.   
  
“You take what is yours, my love,” Francis whispered into Jos’ ear, cradling him within the curve of his throat and within the spread of his legs and the warmth of his body, tracing one hand down the sweat slick skin of his back and canting his hips to urge Jos to have him in anyway he wanted.   
  
“I will,” Jos panted, lips pressed open and wanting to his neck, littering his skin with another mark of possession that Francis would demand be kissed the next morning when they woke tangled in the sheets of another unfamiliar bed. “Always.”   
  
Francis touched his tongue to Jos’ cheek and tasted the salt of his lust and wondered if it was possible to recover from such a thing as this, to survive the wild irresponsibility of risking so much on one person.   
  
He knew that such feelings as these, in a moment such as this, were worth any price when Jos laced their hands together and kissed him as they rocked together. Within the space of a kiss, Francis spelled out their contractual obligations, telling Jos with each touch of his tongue and parting of his lips that he would not revoke their agreement.

There was no space in which to hide any longer, no distance between the mutual racing of their hearts in the press of chest to chest, nor in the burn of his thighs and the shaking of arms that held him so dearly. There was no more reason to hide the truth of the matter, to pretend for one moment more that they suffered from the same weakness, from the same desperate and complete desire. 

In such reckless admissions Francis believed they could only find strength.

And within the cling of Jos’ embrace and the press of his cock inside of his body and slam of Jos’ hips against his own as he came, Francis trusted Jos to sign his name to the agreement they had been so slowly writing for all the years they said too little and felt too much. He touched his fingers to the bruise on Jos’ shoulder and ran his tongue over the swell of his bottom lip, knowing that although such marks of love were impermanent and fleeting, his commitment had been etched as irrevocably on his heart as confessions that would soon be printed in black and white.


	17. Eirik

**Sent: February 4th, 2013 @ 9:03pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: aron617@hku.edu  
Subject: Foolhardy**   
  
_Aron,  
  
I thought you might like to know that Jens has agreed to do me the favor of acting as my plus one.  
  
Am I allowed to speak to you now?  
  
~Eirik (who would like to remind certain little brothers that he has just paid the final installment for spring quarter tuition.)_   
  
**Sent: February 5th, 2013 @3:09am  
From: aron617@hku.edu  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: RE: Foolhardy**   
  
_Jens said yes to a date with you?  
  
I’m blown away. Honestly, I may need several days to recover from a shocking revelation of this magnitude. (Though it may have to wait until I’ve stopped mocking you for your prior infractions. Your desperation will always be hilarious.)  
  
You are permitted to speak to me again. My life would be a much duller place if I didn’t have you to entertain me with your romantic flailings.  
  
~Aron  
  
ps: Less than a month until the big reunion. I’ll make some popcorn in preparation for the delight of watching the lengths you’ll go to convince yourself you aren't excited._   
  
**Sent: February 5th, 2013 @ 7:23am  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: aron617@hku.edu  
Subject: Foolhardy**   
  
_Mouthy brat.  
  
Let me take this opportunity to stick a pin your little balloon of delight and admit that I *am* excited.   
  
There. I've said it and now your pathetic pop-scorn has gone all to waste.   
  
-Eirik_   
  
**Sent: February 5th, 2013 @9:19am  
From: aron617@hku.edu  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: RE: Foolhardy**   
  
_Wow. I had not imagined that a man of your advanced age and wisdom could sink to such depths of immaturity. That was quite the impressive "nyah-nyah-nyah." I think I could see your tongue from Hong Kong.  
  
-A  
  
ps- Yes, you've told me. But have you told him? _   
  
**Sent: February 5th, 2013 @ 10:45am  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: aron617@hku.edu  
Subject: Foolhardy**   
  
_I am sure you could see my tongue from Hong Kong.  
  
There is a reason Bonnefoy hired me.   
  
-Eirik  
  
ps- What I do and do not tell Idiot Jens is none of your busines_ s.   
  
**Sent: February 5th, 2013 @6:54pm  
From: aron617@hku.edu  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: RE: Foolhardy**   
  
_That is disgusting.  
  
I revoke your "speaking to Aron" privileges.   
  
-A  
  
ps- Then stop involving me in your dramatics. Honestly, a thirteen year old is more adept at romance than you. _   
  
**Sent: February 7th @ 5:12pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: So I have this calendar and I am totally crossing out the days until March 1st **   
  
_Dear Eirik,  
  
How's my Superstar? Surviving the limelight? (If you need a refuge from the life of the rich and famous, you are always always welcome to come hide out in my bunk.)  
  
All is well here in Club Med! Sunny skies and tacky tourists abound, but now that I've got something so sweet on the horizon, I can't even get mad when my ass gets pinched four times in one day by a dirty old French woman. Ten euros says she's related to Bonnefoy. Anyone that shamelessly lewd must be a Bonnefoy, right?   
  
I've got my flight and my hotel booked. I'll arrive on the 28th...so maybe you'd be willing to let me take you out the night before the big to-do? Just you and me and whatever the hell you wanna do---even if you just want to lay face down on the bed and watch stupid shit on TV. Oooh, maybe one of those reality shows I bet you mainline when no one is around. Ha ha ha, I can just picture you keeping up with the Kardashians! Norge, you adorable loser!  
  
So, what do you say? You, me, and anything your heart desires...before I have to share you once more with the rest of the world.  
  
Love,  
Jens  
  
ps-- Three weeks. Three weeks! I am so excited, Norge!_   
  
**Sent: February 7th @ 10:37pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: Idiot. If you are coming on the 28th, you only need cross out the remaining days in February.**   
  
_Idiot Jens,  
  
I am surviving my stardom. Bonnefoy and Van Rijn have absconded to parts unknown (the Polish gossip insists that they've been secretly married and are now on their honeymoon, but I take everything that comes out of his endlessly moving mouth with a shaker of salt), so in their absence the Studio is quiet. I've been momentarily freed of my promotional obligations, so I shall have to turn down your...generous...offer to share a narrow bunk below the decks of a boat that is frequently overrun by passengers of the Bonnefoy persuasion.   
  
 ~~Even if it would be more pleasant to receive *actual* coffee from you in the mornings.~~  
  
I'm glad your arrangements have been made for your flight.   
  
And hotel room. That was unexpected.   
  
As for your other offer, if I am not forced to work...I'll consider it. I would say a night of peace and quiet before endless hours of chaotic celebration would be lovely...but I am not sure that I can qualify the experience of being with you as quiet or peaceful.   
  
I do not watch the Kardashians. Often.   
  
-Eirik  
  
ps- You've stolen my thunder, fool. Now I will have nothing to lord over Aron's impudent little head. _   
  
  
**Sent: February 8th @ 6:19pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: Good call! Seems like I'm not the only one counting down...**   
  
_Dear Eirik,  
  
I didn't want to presume on the hotel room. Well, that's a lie. I want to presume...so badly, you have no fucking idea...but I'll leave all invitations to anywhere you wanna go with me in your hands.   
  
Just know that I'll happily follow.   
  
I'm going to be MIA for the next few days--Cy's whored us out to one of the bigger cruise ships to earn the extra cash he needs to fix up another boat for his fleet and I couldn't turn the guy down since he's put up with my ass all winter.   
  
Tell me, Norge...what *is* it like, being with me?   
  
Do you know what its like for me when I'm with you? When I met you I felt like I was looking at a really beautiful glacier--so damned pretty and cold and daunting, everyone told me it wasn't safe to approach, but I've always been too reckless (idiotic? :D) to know better, and when I got up close enough, the glacier only got more beautiful with all its little frissons and footholds that mark a path I'm still climbing because I think the view from the top is going to take my goddamned breath away.   
  
I'll always love the stillness of you but I love what shifts and slides beneath the surface even more.   
  
Love,  
Jens  
  
ps--Is that your roundabout-Eirik-way of telling me you are excited too? Ha, now I'm even more excited! _   
  
**Sent: February 12th @ 08:02am  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: May the ocean swallow me whole **   
  
_Jens,  
  
If I am a glacier, then let me be melted and returned to the sea...at least for the next 48 hours so I can escape the inanity and ridiculousness that seems to ensnare even grown men with careers in feigning passion.   
  
I will not mention the horror by name lest you feel any inclinations towards grand gestures or useless sentimentality. It is bad enough that I am forced to witness Berwald pace anxiously in my dressing room grumbling about the need for a perfect gift for Tino for the day that is not to be named. As if I know what a Finnish diplomat with a cuckold fetish would find romantic.  Because I am a kind and benevolent soul, I told him to try his hand at poetry.   
  
Promise me that you will spare me any indignity. I do not think I could stand another round of everyone *looking* at me if you were to play the fool.   
  
-Eirik  
  
....being with you is a disruption. You are an avalanche of unpredictability, a loud and rushing force of nature that tumbles over carefully kept vistas and writes the landscape anew. Even glaciers can be reshaped by such dangerous and relentless power._   
  
**Sent: February 16th @ 11:28pm  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: Happy February 16th**   
  
_Dear Eirik,  
  
I assume that February 16th is a day that can be named...maybe we can celebrate the nothing special at all of this totally not-romantic or meant for couples day together next year.   
  
It could be our thing and no one would look at you but me.   
  
Yeah, that sounds pretty damned awesome.  
  
Fuck Valentine's. It's all about February 16th.   
  
Love,  
Jens_   
  
~~~~   
Eirik wasn't entirely certainly why there were two beds in his room but he had a sneaking suspicion that he should probably blame the illusion on stupid Berwald's ridiculously heavy handed pours. It was so late Eirik thought it might be early and his bed looked very very good, but it was hard to know which one was real and which was a dirty liar made of vodka and the Finn's strangely delicious home brew. Eirik bit his lip and swayed on his feet as he tried to take off his shoes and his socks, not wanting to track dirt and barroom floor into whichever bed was real, wishing that he had someone with him to help solve the mystery of his double vision.    
  
His phone was in his hand before he realized he had overcome this latest hurdle in life by flopping gracelessly onto his pillow, his thoughts ever so much like driftwood on alcoholic water. The buttons were blurred and his eyes were already half-closed in surrender to a night of hard celebration, but still his finger drifted to the pretty green shape of a telephone that was always irritatingly tempting at the end of a long day when the quiet of his apartment echoed in his ears.   
  
"Hello?....Hello....Eirik? Are you there?"     
  
"You sound tired," Eirik offered smugly, pressing his face into the pillow and reflecting on how pathetic it was that Jens should be sleepy when he had been up so long the sun was starting to peek through the bottom of the curtains.    
  
"It is 5am, Norge. And you sound drunk. Been out having a good time without me?" Jens' low, rough laughter rippled through his sea of exhaustion and intoxication just enough so Eirik could crack open one eye and refute the ridiculous assertion that he had been having any kind of good time.    
  
"It is all Berwald's fault," Eirik accused, yawning loudly as he struggled to get the covers over his head, hoping that the comforter would protect him from the nasty hangover he could feel trying to creep beneath his skin. "The Finn asked him to move in on that horrible pink and red day and then we had to go get drunk."    
  
"Tino asked him to move in?" Jens answered softly and Eirik pressed his face closer to the phone, wondering if he could feel the rumble of that nighttime voice. "I guess the poetry suggestion worked out for him, eh, Norge?"    
  
Eirik scoffed and licked his lips, wishing that water wasn't all the way in the bathroom because he felt so thirsty. He considering cursing Berwald for bringing him to this sorry state until the memory of his smile bubbled to the surface of his very floaty and slippery thoughts.    
  
"Berwald talks when he's happy. Did you know that?" Eirik asked quietly.   
  
"I did, I do. If you'll recall, old Berry and I had some pretty sweet times in university. I know what a chatty bastard he can be when he's juiced up on life." Jens murmured fondly.   
  
He yawned and closed his eyes, imagining Jens young and even more foolish, arm tossed around Berwald's shoulder as he tried to get his friend into trouble. It occurred to him that Jens probably would have enjoyed the evening very much...laughing and drinking and toasting Berwald's joy while trying to hold Eirik's hand beneath the table.    
  
"I might have let you," Eirik mumbled.    
  
"Uh, might have let me what, tipsy-boy?" Jens asked, laughter curling around Eirik's limbs and pinning him against the mattress.    
  
"Hold my hand," Eirik grumbled, wondering if Jens had always been this slow on the uptake.    
  
"And why would I want to do that?"   
  
Eirik had the distinct impression that Jens might have been making fun of him. He attempted to sound smug in his retort, though the way his yawns kept cracking his words left something to be desired, but he trusted that he got his point across from the way Jens' sharp breath of surprised resounded in his ears when he said, "Because you love me. Which is stupid, but I can't help your stupidity no matter how much I try, so I guess its okay to let you hold my hand. To let you to touch me."    
  
"I do love you, so much. And I want to touch you."    
  
Eirik hummed with satisfaction, pleased that he had proven his point so readily. Jens was an idiot. "Of course you do."    
  
"And you want me to touch you, Norge?"    
  
Eirik thought about it, let the question float over waves of lack of sleep and lack of sobriety, suddenly all too aware that his bed was irritatingly empty and cold and that there would be no one to bring him coffee or make him toast in the morning. It would have been nice, he mused as he breathing slowed and his hands slipped from the phone, it would have been nice to be held by someone so he didn't feel so adrift.    
  
"Yes, I want that," he whispered carelessly.   
  
"Tell me, tell me how you want it," a voice murmured to him, thickened and lost in the darkness of almost sleep, "Anything you want, I'll do it for you."    
  
The last thought Eirik had before he lost the battle with consciousness was that it was very unfair of Jens to demand so much when he was so tired and so drunk.    
  
"No, you tell me."    
  
"With pleasure, Norge....Norge?....Eirik?...Oh, hell. You adorable fucking drunk. You passed out, didn't you? Its not nice, you know, to wake a man up in more ways than one and then leave him hanging. Are you snoring? Already? Fine, fine. Sleep well, drunky...and when you've recovered enough to get out of bed...be sure to check your email."   
  
~~   
  
**2/20/12  
10:01am  
Message from: Jens**   
Wakey-wakey, Eirik!  Time to get up and greet the day, my wasted little charmer.   
  
**2/20/12  
10:32am**   
**Message from: Eirik**   
Fuck off.   
  
**2/20/12  
10:41am  
Message from: Jens**   
_coffee.jpg  
bacon.jpg_   
Aww, don't be that way when I've brought you breakfast in bed. Or after you woke me up last night.   
  
**2/20/12  
10:45am  
Message from: Eirik**   
I hate you. What the hell am I supposed do with pixelated processed meat?   
...I called you?   
  
**2/20/12  
10:47am  
Message from: Jens**   
You sure did, babe! Did you know you are fucking adorable when you're hammered? You'll have to let me get you nice and liquored up sometime.   
  
**2/20/12  
10:51am  
Message from: Eirik**   
What did I say about me and cute? Not true. Did I say anything...weird?   
  
**2/20/12  
10:55am  
Message from: Jens**   
Weird? Nah.   
GTG...but check your email when you get a chance :D :D.   
  
**Sent: February 20th @ 5:18am  
From: den_jens@gmail.dk  
To: eirik@gmail.no  
Subject: Tell you how I'd do it? OK! **   
  
_You want to know how I would touch you, Norge? You want to know how I would take my time and start at your toes, slipping my fingers between each one just to listen to you try not to laugh because you're too Eirik to do something like giggle? You wanna know how I'd like to press my thumbs into the arch of your foot and and then slide my palms up your calves so I could kiss the hollow of your knee and lick the shiver you wouldn't be able to help?  
  
You want to know all about how much time I'd spend on those thighs of yours, remembering the taste of your skin and getting hard because you'd be breathing faster and I'd be able to feel the tension in your muscles, the way you like to hold yourself back from me just a little, trying to make me work for it?   
  
You want to know that I'd put my mouth all over cock but I won't--not yet--because you need to know that I've got so much of you still to touch that its gonna take me half an eternity to get it all done as well as you need to get done, Norge.  
  
But you shouldn't worry, because I'm going to tell you all of it. I am going to tell you how I'd write my name along your hipbones and down the tremble and shake of your stomach. I am going to tell you how I'd hold your hands and kiss your fingers and press my lips to that telltale racing of a heart that matches my own. I am going to tell you how badly I want to give in your dirty little demands that I get the hell on with it and I'm going to whisper to you to be quiet and let an idiot do the one thing he does best.   
  
I am going to tell you until you can't forget it what its like when we kiss, when I get to have your lips on mine, slick and soft and parted so there's a part of me in you and part of you in me. And I'm going to repeat this until your mouth is red and wet and maybe even saying my name.  
  
I am going to tell you how damn hard it is to leave such a pretty mouth and I am going to tell you how good you taste when I trace my tongue down your chest and touch it to tip of your cock and finally get to know what you feel like between my lips and in my throat.   
  
You'll want to know how your hips arch and your fingers pull at my hair, so impatient, so needy and so vicious that it's making me fucking crazy with how much I want you, how much I want this. You'll want to know how my fingers spread your thighs so I can take more and more. You'll want to know how I kiss you when you're shaking and breathless with desire and how I am going to tell you that I think you're so damned beautiful and I love you so damned much.   
  
And I am going to tell you all of this, Eirik. I'll tell you as many times as you need to hear it.   
  
God, I'll tell you everything. How badly I want to touch you whenever you smile because you think no one's looking. How I want to touch you first thing in the morning and last thing at night.  
  
And how I want you to touch me.   
  
But I think I'd rather say it all in person. (And when you aren't so drunk you fall asleep right when its getting good).   
  
So. Yeah. See you in a week <3  
  
Love,  
Jens_   
  
**Sent: February 20th @ 2:25pm  
From: eirik@gmail.no  
To: den_jens@gmail.dk  
Subject: Well. **   
  
_You may cancel your hotel reservation. Consider this your invitation to presume.  
  
I will see you on the 28th.   
  
-Eirik  
  
ps- I am excited._


	18. Eirik

If the nosey Pole had asked him four months ago if he would ever be rushing down the crowded halls of a hotel, cursing the press under his breath and trying not to feel guilty for keeping Jens waiting, Eirik would have rolled his eyes and responded with a resounding and heartfelt no. But it seemed that in the long weeks of separation, he had forgotten all the reasons he once had to keep his distance and now he the only excuse he could summon for the anxiety that bubbled in his stomach as he looked at his watch was weak concern that Jens would be idiot enough to try and find him in throngs of people gathered for the awards ceremony.   
  
He distracted himself from fluttering nerves that were more appropriate for teenage heartthrobs by casting mental aspersions on the reporter who had tried to take such liberties with his personal life, cornering him after the disastrous interview to demand the name of his “oh so secret lover.”   
  
“ _Is it Denmark?”_ The asinine man had asked, so thrilled with the potential for a scoop that he hadn’t had the good grace to deflate when Eirik rolled his eyes and informed him coldly that Denmark was a country, not a person, so he could hard see how that could be possible.   
  
To his annoyance, in the chaos that had followed that deflection, Eirik had lost his precious window for escape and now he was late, and for a reason he did not yet want to name, Eirik did not want to make Jens wait.   
  
Such reckless and sentimental thoughts echoed in his mind just as his feet crossed over threshold of the lobby, and suddenly Eirik was in need of at least another half hour to think about what to say, how to quell the strange racing of his heart and to figure out exactly what he had been thinking when he invited Jens to join him.   
  
Ten minutes late and now this was all far too soon and he had no idea how to be this person with sweaty palms and ridiculous butterflies in his stomach, and god help him, a smile threatening to shatter what little composure he had left.   
  
But all chance of escape disappeared in the instant he heard a cheerful, far too loud, “Eirik!” shouted across the lobby. Eirik closed his eyes and took a deep breath, entirely unsurprised that he would hear the idiot before he saw him and resigned himself to the fate he could no longer pretend he had not helped orchestrate.   
  
He opened his eyes as a broad hand clasped his shoulder and dragged him against a warm chest that smelled of cologne. He laid eyes on a blue sky gaze and that annoying too bright smile that always sunburned his cheeks and realized there was no avoiding the wary happiness he felt at once more having the chance to scowl and murmur coolly, “Far too loud, Idiot Jens.”   
  
“Hello to you, too, Norge,” Jens teased, smile stretching impossibly wider as he brought their foreheads together and brushed a single, fleeting kiss to his brow before stepping away.   
  
Eirik frowned, surprised by the utter lack of theatrics, the dearth of the passionate embrace he had imagined Jens would insist upon as a celebration of their reunion. He wondered why Jens had stepped away, why he held Eirik no longer, instead choosing to keep one hand behind his back and the other mussing his hair while he looked anywhere but at Eirik. He peered at Jens’ face in search of clues for this unexpected politeness, remembering the last email Jens had sent, so full of promises and pleas and doubted that Jens had somehow turned demure in the span of a week.   
  
Perplexed, Eirik cleared his throat and offered, “I’m sorry for being late. I was delayed by stupidity.”   
  
If the sincerity in Jens’ smile eased the sting of Eirik’s ridiculous upset as he said, “Don’t worry about it,” the sheepish shrug he gave as he thrust a cup of coffee into Eirik’s unsuspecting hand laid waste to all lingering doubt with a single gesture. “But I think this has probably gone a little cold now.”   
  
Eirik stared at the cup in his hand and then at Jens’ expectant expression of hope and happiness, and then looked once more at the lukewarm black coffee and realized that he was not alone in this.   
  
Jens was nervous, too. Jens, who had always seemed so sure, who made declarations as if it cost him nothing, who had cajoled and cared and carried on while Eirik waited and watched and worried, was just as uncertain and unsure of what was supposed to happen next.   
  
Eirik sighed and brought the coffee to lips that refused to do anything but smile faintly, sipping slowly as he tasted Jens’ consideration and swallowed his foolish hesitation. The coffee was cold and not nearly strong enough and on the wrong side of bitter and entirely perfect.   
  
“You brought me coffee,” Eirik murmured, licking lips lips as he met Jens’ eyes and let him see the curve of the smile he’d at long last won.   
  
“Just my way of saying hello,” Jens answered as the tension bled from his voice, body going loose and easy in the way Eirik had always remembered, “Even if its probably not any good.”   
  
“Would you like a taste?” Eirik asked coolly, lips twitching over the rim of the cup as he took a step closer.   
  
“Sure,” Jens tossed out thoughtlessly, still grinning while Eirik sipped tepid coffee and gradually came to lean against his chest.   
  
“Well, come here then, Idiot,” Eirik murmured, smirking as he cupped Jens’ smiling face with his palm and kissed him gently, brushing his tongue over lips that parted with delighted surprise, whispering something that would have been his name had he not tightened his hold and kissed Jens more deeply, sharing the taste of bitter coffee and warm pleasure. The embrace lasted for no more than a minute, too short to explain the tightness in his chest and the burning in his cheeks, but when they parted, Eirik knew that this had been far more than a kiss hello.   
  
He pressed his cheek to Jens’ neck and felt a happy hum beneath his lips while he listened to the pounding of his heart and dropped his hand from Jens’ jaw to his waist, simply holding on while he waited to regain some sense of sanity.   
  
This affliction of fondness and desire had the potential to be very troublesome.   
  
“Tastes pretty damn good to me,” Jens said with a chuckle, kissing the top of his head and stroking his hand down his back. Eirik snorted, glad to be reminded of exactly how Jens had earned his nickname, blinking as he opened his eyes and finally noticed something that had been different all along.   
  
And when he blurted out, “You really  _do_  have a  tan,” Eirik suspected that idiocy, like feelings was catching.   
  
“Glad to see you haven’t lost those keen powers of observation, Norge!” Jens chortled, laughing so loudly it rumbled between the press of their chests and forced him to push away, slapping Jens’ stomach with his palm until the fool quieted down enough to speak sense. Jens wiped his eyes and smiled brightly, cradling his face between his too large hands and declaring, “God, I missed you. I missed you so damned much.”   
  
Cheeks flushing against his will, Eirik scowled, crossing his arms over his chest as he tried to glare his way free from Jens’ affectionate trap, muttering, “If you don’t let me go right now, you’ll be missing me again sooner than you think.”   
  
Jens laughed and dropped his hands to pick up the overnight bag at his side. “Well, I don’t have any plans to let you go anytime soon, Norge, so it might be better for both of us if you just give in and tell me you missed me too.”   
  
“Fine, I missed you too. Are we done with the idiot portion of our agenda for the evening?” Eirik taunted, unable to keep from swaying into the space Jens’ left between them, his body honest in its impatience to be near.   
  
“I guess that depends on what you wanna do tonight,” Jens said with a wink, tossing his bag over his shoulder and gesturing towards the elevators, “So what’s it going to be, Norge? Whatever you want, we can make happen.”   
  
Eirik closed his eyes and pretended to think, pretended to consider any answer than the one that had been in his heart since Jens had said yes to this a month ago.   
  
When he opened his eyes again, he smoothed his expression into the icy disinterest that had once bought Bonnefoy’s curiosity and answered coolly, “I want to go back to the room and lie face down on the bed while we watch the  _Keeping Up With the Kardashians_ .”   
  
“Damn, I knew you liked shitty reality T.V.,” Jens crowed playfully, brushing their shoulders together as they walked towards the elevators.   
  
Eirik snorted and favored Jens with a glare that barely disguised his amusement. “And during the commercials I’ll allow you to show me pictures of that beautiful boat and share your horror stories about perverse American woman.”   
  
“I can do that,” Jens answered as the doors closed and the elevator crept towards the fourteenth floor and all that waited in an empty hotel room. “If you’ll give me the scoop on Operation Cockblock Aron. And how its going for our favorite Swedish lovebird.”   
  
“I don’t see why my reasonable brotherly concern should be called cockblocking,” Eirik sniffed, enjoying the glint of shared mischief in Jens’ gaze, “But I suppose that could be arranged.”   
  
“Sounds like we’ve got the evening all planned,” Jens said cheerfully, draping an arm around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to the tense line of Eirik’s jaw. “I can’t wait.”   
  
The elevator doors opened to the long stretch of hallway as Eirik swallowed and decided it was time to gracefully surrender to inevitability.   
  
“There is one other thing,” Eirik murmured as he turned to Jens, blocking the path forward.   
  
“Anything,” Jens said with such happy sincerity Eirik wondered how he was to survive this sort of devoted desire. “Name it and it's yours.”   
  
Eirik sighed softly and held out his hand, “Remember your email? All those promises and pretty words?”Jens nodded and laced their fingers together, bringing Eirik’s hand to his lips and kissing his knuckles.   
  
Eirik smiled. “Good. Because I want you to tell me everything.”   
  
~~~~   
  
"God, look at you," Jens whispered as Eirik stole a kiss to chase the taste of himself from Jens' tongue, "So damned gorgeous, ruined and amazing, and now I am the only one who gets to see this face of yours, to know that flush is for me and that I made you smile like that."   
  
Eirik sighed and tipped his head against the pillow to let Jens score his teeth down the curve of his throat, already knowing what his answer would be when Jens kissed his ear and begged, "I want to fuck you."   
  
He threaded his hands in Jens’ hair and met him in a kiss that was still far too tinged with desperation and desire to be considered rational and thought that perhaps he’d abandoned rationality the first time he’d hit reply to an idiotic email signed, “love.”   
  
He knew he had certainly abandoned all hope of return when he’d given Jens permission sidle up next to him on the bed while he pretended to watch TV and listened to Jens whisper all the words that had until now only been pixels in his inbox. And Jens had told him everything, had told him tales of the sea and laughed when Eirik shared his latest scheme for uncovering the identity of Aron’s paramour. He told him all the sweet nothings he'd written over the many months and when Eirik had demanded silence, that he spout no more idiocy, Jens had pulled the clothes from his body and taken his cock between his lips and down his throat, telling him something else entirely.   
  
But from the way Jens was rubbing against him and in the sparks that continued to course up his spine, it seemed to Eirik that they were not done talking.   
  
Eirik sucked Jens’ bottom lip between his teeth and bit down just to feel the rough arch of hips between the splay of his legs, the roughness of Jens’ jeans against skin that was still tender to the touch, still humming from the pleasure he’d taken in Jens’ mouth.   
  
Eirik smirked and pulled that messy, ridiculous hair until Jens was panting and breathless above him, trying to charm him with a foolish smile too red and too wet to be anything but lewd. Eirik closed his eyes and dragged his thumb down the line of Jens’ jaw, digging his finger into the tender junction of throat and face, pressing down on the pulse that jumped just for him.   
  
“You can fuck me on one condition,” Eirik taunted lowly, opening his eyes just enough to watch the play of lust over Jens’ face, sliding his hand down the plane of his chest to cup between the tangle of their legs and splay over the front of Jens’ pants.   
  
“Anything,” Jens said hotly and Eirik thought no matter how his body had become tanned and toned, his heart and mind were ever the same. Making promises without thinking, without hesitation, and wanting him without reservation.   
  
It still unnerved him, a little, to know that he could return such feelings, to discover that there were promises he wanted to make, even if his wary thoughts insisted on reserving the right to hesitation.   
  
After all, one of them had to be responsible for thinking, for planning, for doubting or it was entirely likely they would drown in the sea of Jens’ endless and idiotic optimism and assurance that with enough persistence all things in life were possible.   
  
Perhaps, if he could put Jens’ boundless energy to other uses, keep his stupidly affectionate heart from running away entirely, Eirik could strike a balance between reservation and recklessness and make this work.   
  
Eirik sighed and licked the edge of his kiss bitten lip as he slipped two fingers in Jens’ pants and touched his cock for the first time in so many months, feeling warmth and wetness that made him want to taste and feel and remember the slow stretch and burn of it inside of him.   
  
“I want you to fuck me until I come again,” Eirik commanded softly, sighing when Jens’ cursed and sank his teeth into his shoulder, pushing shamelessly into the fingers that circled the tip of his cock and squeezed. He thought of the way Jens’ breathing hitched when they spoke those few times over the phone, how even across distance he could hear his yearning. He taunted him with a voice of sex and smoke, wanting to have that same murmur of pleasure echo in his ear, “Can you manage it, Idiot Jens? Or have you been spoiled by all that sun and sea?”   
  
“Norge, Norge,” Jens murmured to him, the shape of that ridiculous name roughened with lust and wonder as it spilled over the flush of his cheek. Eirik welcomed the kiss he knew was coming, knowing that Jens had always liked to brag with words punctuated by touch, letting Jens tell him with the twining of tongues and the brush of their lips how well he was going to live up to expectations. By the time Jens left him breathless and stirred with the beginnings of renewed desire, Eirik had no choice but to believe in Jens’ smiling and arrogant declaration of, “Hell yes, I can manage it!”   
  
“Show and not tell, fool,” Eirik said, laughter rippling just beneath the honey of his taunt as he pushed Jens away, running his toes down the length of a tanned chest. Jens smirked at him, blue eyes glinting with the mischief and affection that had so long made Eirik wish to disappear beneath cold waves and Eirik began to suspect Jens would not have to try very hard to rekindle his heat when his ankle was trapped between fingers roughened by a ship’s ropes and warm lips were touched to the slope of his calf.   
  
And there was so much show in Jens’ expression of determination and delight that Eirik couldn’t help but understand all that was told in the press of a thumb to the arch of his foot and the hand that slid beneath the parting of his legs to cup his ass. His cock remained soft against his stomach but his breathing quickened, shameless for all that it shamed him to be so easy, to be so ready for Jens to be entirely naked and entirely with him, trapping him against the mattress and relearning all the pleasures they once sold for profit.   
  
Eirik smirked and curled his toes over Jens’ collarbone and then shoved him away with his foot, letting his fingers drift down to stroke his cock and tease between his legs while Jens’ watched with wide hungry eyes. “You can’t fuck with your pants on, fool. I trust you haven’t forgotten how these things work while you were off island hopping."   
  
“I haven’t forgotten a single damned thing I ever learned when it comes to you,” Jens answered hotly. He popped the button of his jeans and winked while the zipper came undone and revealed the red of his underwear, already stained wet over the strain of his cock. Eirik closed his eyes as Jens stole the insult from his tongue and kissed him firmly, dragging cotton over the spread of his thighs and the roll of his hips, murmuring as he parted from Eirik once more, “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’m always paying attention.”   
  
“You still want to know everything about me?” Eirik said thickly, thrown by the note of happiness in his voice and the strange impulse to do anything but deride such a romantic and patently ridiculous notion.    
  
“Always,” Jens replied with such simple sincerity that Eirik felt it settle beneath his skin and warm within his heart.   
  
And in the silence of his acceptance, Jens kissed his brow, his nose, his cheeks and his lips--so soft and so subtle, Eirik felt as though he were meeting someone entirely new. He cradled Jens’ jaw between his fingers to deepen their kiss, sighing lowly into Jen’s mouth and answering the question that had gone unasked, telling what truths could be told with the touch of his lips and the splay of his hand on Jens’ hip.   
  
Jens pulled away with a lingering and dirty kiss, taking the swell of Eirik’s lip between his teeth and tugging as he broke the embrace. Eirik licked the marks Jens’ had left and watched as he stood from the bed and shed the last of his clothing to reveal skin that was as pale as the last time Eirik had ruined it for Bonnefoy’s camera. He trailed his fingers between his thighs and watched as Jens stroked his cock once, twice, three times as his other hand reached for the bedside table.   
  
Eirik closed his eyes so he would not have to see the smug expression of delight Jens was sure to wear when he discovered that Eirik had planned for this, had perhaps thought that in the hours of their reunion there would be cause for such closeness, for the kind of tangle and thrust that needed assistance.   
  
But there was no keeping his distance when Jens pushed once more between his legs and pressed a slick finger to the cleft of his ass; there was no denying how much he wanted to hold that gaze of desire and determination when Jens draped the heavy warmth of naked skin over his body and slid one arm beneath his neck to pull him from the pillow and kiss him slowly.   
  
Eirik parted his lips as he was parted, welcoming the hot and intrusive touch of tongue and finger that unfolded his lust with a concentration that belied the tremble of the chest pressed to his and the drag of the cock against his thigh. For a time there was nothing but the sound of skin moving over skin and the ridiculously low murmurs of pleasure that Jens poured into their kiss each time Eirik arched his hips to seek the pressure of Jens’ finger deeper inside, as his body tried to recall the last time he had been touched for no reason beyond ardor.   
  
Wondering if he had become drunk on an idiot’s impatience, Eirik slipped one hand between their bodies to run idle fingers over his cock, while he bit at lips that kept sinking the mood into romance and hooked a leg around Jens’ waist to show him where he was supposed to go.   
  
After all, Jens had promised to follow wherever he led and Eirik did not think they could sustain on kissing and the slow rock of hips against hips; not when there was too much temptation after so many months of dreams he pretended to forget when he woke and the fantasies he let spill down the shower drain when he touched himself and tried not to remember  _Denmark_ .   
  
“Get on with it,” Eirik growled, regretting the way his voice cracked breathlessly and how greedy his fingers must have felt between their legs, whispering over their cocks and trying to drag Jens further and further down.   
  
Jens’ head whipped up from the curve of his throat, lips that had been leaving marks now stretched over a delighted smile that made him want to grit his teeth and kick his heels against Jens’ back. “Mmm, so you did miss me?”   
  
“I’m starting to wonder why,” Eirik retorted, raking his nails down Jens’ chest when he pushed up on his knees and sat between the spread of Eirik’s thighs, pulling his hand away from his ass. He pinched Jens’ nipples just to see the way his strokes of slick preparation stuttered and stalled with each vicious little twist. “Perhaps you had better remind me before I forget entirely.”   
  
“Don’t worry, Norge. You’ll definitely remember me in the morning.” Jens smiled, low and hot and dangerous in that way Bonnefoy had always prized so highly, splashing it over every DVD case as a mirror to the cool mystery that Eirik had been told he held within the thin sliver of his smirk.   
  
Jens pulled his legs over his shoulders and Eirik flexed his toes against the side of Jens’ face, feeling the roughness of skin at the end of the day, somehow as intimate as the kisses Jens’ brushed over the bones of his ankle and the first touch of Jens’ cock inside his body. Eirik stifled the heavy moan that threatened at burn of Jens moving within him, so steady and so slow Eirik thought the tenderness of it all might break him as surely as the moment when Jens opened his eyes and looked at him as though he’d never seen anything so astonishing.   
  
And as Jens folded him in half, pushing in so deep that Eirik’s knees were at his chest and his ankles were hooked around the tense flex of Jens’ shoulders, the moan he had not wanted to give rushed from between his lips and disappeared into the bruising excuse for a kiss that Jens pressed into his mouth. Eirik clawed at Jens’ shoulders and bit at Jens’ lips, fighting for air when Jens licked up the side of his face and snapped his hips, abandoning softness for that which they had always done best.   
  
Eirik thrashed his head on the pillow and reached for his cock when Jens straightened and spread his legs wide, shortening his thrusts to search out the rhythm that would light sparks in his mind and send lust spiraling down his body. He attempted to scowl at the sound Jens’s smug laughter as his cock stirred once more within the circle of his fist, but Jens was pushing into him with such force that his lips refused to anything but part around gritty sighs and low curses.   
  
In retaliation, he flicked his tongue over the wet and bitten stain of his mouth and tilted his hips to meet the dirty push and pull of Jens’ cock moving inside him, letting his legs slide from Jens’ shoulders to wrap around his waist and tug him down. Jens brought his breathless smile to Eirik’s greedy mouth, framing his face with elbows on either side of the pillow as they kissed and fucked and struggled for the upper-hand. Eirik sucked on Jens’ tongue and threaded his fingers into Jens’ hair, refusing to let him go, stealing all the happy groans of surrender and swallowing them into memory as he arched his back and took as good as Jens gave.   
  
Eirik pushed against the weight of Jens’ body, rolled his hips and tried to lift from the trap of a too soft mattress, flooded suddenly by heated thoughts of hands and knees on the carpet of the hotel floor, skin rubbing raw while Jens fucked him. At the scoring of Eirik’s nails down his neck and over his shoulder, Jens abandoned his campaign to leave Eirik’s throat reddened and marked, looking at him questioningly.   
  
Eirik brushed his lips over Jens’ ear, slowing the arch and roll of his hips to a cloying, teasing pace. “Idiot Jens,” he murmured, rubbing his nose down the line of Jens’ face to touch his tongue to the sweat that beaded beneath his jaw.   
  
“What is it, Norge?” Jens asked him, cupping his hand around the flush of his cheek and sliding his thumb over the sharp of teeth that closed around the pad of the intruding finger.   
  
“Let me up,” Eirik commanded softly and before the words had fully formed on his lips, Jens was falling backwards, laughing delightedly as Eirik was at once free of the weight of a too warm and too sunny body anchoring him to the bed. He knew that the shaking of his thighs and the speed with which he crawled into Jens’ waiting lap betrayed his taunt, but he could not help the fond derision he felt when he straddled Jens’ waist and took in the sight of a foolishly happy man with his arms pillowed beneath his head. “You are ridiculous.”   
  
“Ridiculously into you riding me,” Jens teased, pushing his hips into the spread of Eirik’s legs, groaning when Eirik splayed a hand over his chest and sank down on his cock without waiting, without warning. “Fuck, yes, just like that,” Jens panted, back arching off the bed as Eirik smirked and took Jens in with long, steady, strokes, running a single finger between his legs to touch Jens’ cock as it thrust inside. Jens grabbed the hand he’d left splayed over his chest and brought it to his lips, kissing Eirik's palm and nipping his knuckles as he murmured desperately, “So hot, so good, so everything, Norge.”   
  
Despite the tightening in his stomach and the shameless flush of pleasure that painted his cheeks, Eirik rolled his eyes and bent to still Jens’ endless praise with a kiss that was less harsh than he’d intended, softened and clouded by lust and the dizzying rush of affection he felt for the man beneath him, within him.   
  
The man who stroked his hair from his face and whispered, “I love you,” when Eirik sighed and kissed his cheek.   
  
Eirik felt the tremble in Jens’ thighs and heard the hitching in his breath, a matching set for the racing of his own heart and the ache of his cock. He took Jens’ hand from his hair, barely aware of the absent kiss he pressed to warm fingers before bringing them to his cock and urging Jens to stroke him while he rocked his hips with greater urgency.   
  
He kept his gaze on Jens’ face, watching the flutter of his eyelashes denying and revealing a lust tinged sea of blue, pushing into the circle of Jens’ hand as he braced himself on Jens’ chest and took what he wanted with abandon. Jens was arching and writhing, stroking him as he grasped at Eirik’s waist and called his name, called him, “ _Norge_ ,” and “ _Eirik_ ,” and when Eirik came hot and hard over his chest, moaned in broken Danish and called him “ _love_ .”   
  
Eirik shivered and closed his eyes, falling over the edge and against the rise and fall of Jens’ chest as Jens’ continued to push into the cling of his body and whisper kisses over his heated skin, words now lost. Eirik slid his mouth over the parting of Jens’ lips and kissed him messily, running his fingers through the sweaty tangle of Jens’ hair and holding him close and dear until Jens tore away from the embrace to toss his head back and he come while his lips were still slick and red from Eirik’s adoration.   
  
Eirik closed his eyes and went loose within the tight grasp of Jens’ arms around him. Jens’ slipped free from his body and Eirik twisted in Jens’ hold until he was pressed sticky and satiated against the shaking of Jens’ side. For long moments, they were silent but for the gradual slowing of their breathing and the hammering of their hearts, holding one another too close for comfort.   
  
At length, sticky and exhausted, Eirik stroked Jens’ hair from his forehead to edge his teeth along the slack line of Jens’ jaw, kissing the tremble of his pulse before he yawned and tried to roll away.   
  
“Don’t go,” Jens murmured roughly, “Stay here and let me know this real for just a little bit longer.”   
  
Eirik laughed quietly and propped on his elbow to poke Jens’ cheek, shaking his head, “Would you forget this so soon, Idiot Jens? Forget what just happened in the time I would need to take a shower?”   
  
“Not a chance,” Jens answered firmly, smiling when Eirik continued to poke at pink painted over tanned cheeks. “But maybe you should let me come with you just to make sure.”   
  
Eirik huffed with reluctant amusement, entirely unsurprised when Jens followed the flow of his body off the bed, obviously having decided that Eirik’s invitation to share the gala, his room, his bed, and his body extended to the shower as well. Eirik shrugged in feigned defeat and wondered if he could get the idiot to to wash his hair, to stroke his scalp with those long and eager fingers, and rub the ache in his back.   
  
He held out his hand and stood on still shaking legs as he tried to ignore the rush of fondness he felt for Jens’ smile, and like a willing fool, murmured, “Very well. If you cannot do without me, I see I have no other choice.   
  
~~~   
  
The sky was the blue gray of pre-dawn when Eirik stirred to waking beneath unfamiliar covers, wondering why he felt so warm and why his left arm was heavy dead weight. It came to him slowly, drifting through the lingering haze of sleep that wasn’t quite ready to let go--the reason for the ache in his limbs and hot air fanning over the back of his neck. Gently, he pried Jens’ hand from his stomach and turned within the span of his arms, shifting beneath the sheets to blink into the still light of morning and put an inch of distance between the slow tumult of his too early thoughts and the man to whom he had apparently clung to in the night.   
  
For all that the passion of only hours earlier had been felt new with the strange softness that had hummed beneath each graze of his nails down Jens’ chest and each bitten kiss, sex was still familiar, still a known quantity that Eirik could parse and process.   
  
But this kind of intimacy, to wake wrapped in tightness and warmth of another sort entirely was different, and Eirik was very perplexed to discover that he liked it very much. He had not expected to sleep so soundly, nor to want to so soon to erase the inches of white space between his hand and the hand that groped aimlessly for the lover it had so recently been holding near.   
  
Unsettled by his lack of panic, Eirik searched for his usual desire for distance and found none. He looked across the pillow at Jens to stare at a face he’d never seen before. There was something startlingly endearing in the slack parting of the lips he’d kissed so many times and the little wheeze that punctuated each breath he took. There was even something he liked in the ridiculous wetness gathered at the corner of Jens’ mouth, imperfect and unappealing and yet he could not but trace his finger over the curve of sleeping lips and brush a kiss to the warmth of Jens’ forehead, closing his eyes and swallowing a sigh when Jens murmured his name.   
  
In the long moment that he watched Jens sleep, Eirik finally felt able to tie together all the frayed threads of his emotions now that Jens was quiet and at peace, unable to disrupt either heart or mind with the avalanche of his insistent presence.   
  
It was only now, when he had the time and space to put a name to that knot of feeling that Eirik considered himself well and truly fucked.   
  
Gingerly, he slipped from the bed, wincing as his newly released arm tingled with pins and needles when he tried to pick up his phone from the desk. He spared Jens one last look, mildly disgusted by how badly he wanted to crawl beneath the covers and sooth the wrinkle of consternation that marred his forehead as that hand continued to search and find no one.   
  
Snorting at his pathetic state of being, Eirik crept into the bathroom  and shut the door, finger tracing over the name of the contact who had always been the cause for his every effect. He had always thought he would only ever see one particular light in his tunnel and beneath the strange new frisson of happiness that threatened to overcome all his best defenses, he clung to the feelings of obligation that had buoyed him for so many years.   
  
“Shouldn’t you be otherwise occupied?” Aron said snappishly, answering his call without preamble. Eirik smirked and considered informing his younger brother that it was rather sad and telling that he, too, had apparently been keeping track of insignificant details like Jens’ arrival date.   
  
“It is 6am,” Eirik responded coolly, leaning against the vanity and touching a finger to the purpling mark that Jens had left just below his collarbone, “The only other occupation I could have would be sleeping.”   
  
“I’d dispel you of that naive assumption, if I didn’t know that you were perfectly aware of all the many other occupations that two people can have early in the morning,” Aron drawled impatiently, “But I’d rather skip the banter about your perverse work history and my pretended disgust and have you tell me directly why you are on the phone with your brother instead of in bed with your boyfriend.”   
  
Eirik watched his reflection blink at him in surprise, taken aback by the tone of concern buried within Aron’s too pointed observations. He opened his mouth to try to explain, wondering where to begin when Aron sighed noisily and muttered:   
  
“And if you dare tell me he’s not your boyfriend, I’m hanging up.”   
  
Eirik laughed lowly and pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the mirror, closing his eyes as the words came tumbling forth before he could stop, before he could think better of it.   
  
“I’m in love with him.”   
  
“Oh,” Aron breathed into the silence of the space that his confession left, leaving Eirik with such foolishness ringing in his ears until Aron started to laugh. “Oh, is that all?   
  
Rattled by such a reaction to something that felt so monumental, like the shifting of mountains within his psyche, Eirik opened his eyes to regard to the sharp curve of his confused scowl, hissing coldly, “What do you mean is that all?”   
  
Aron choked down his laughter, though Eirik could still hear little hiccups of amusement in his voice as he attempted to respond calmly, “Brother. Honestly, I’ve just been waiting for you to realize it. I didn’t have the heart to tell you, but you’ve been somewhat obvious.”   
  
Eirik frowned. “I have not.”   
  
“Have to,” Aron sing-songed sarcastically, enjoying this far too much for an early morning conversation that was supposed to be serious and sincere.   
  
“Well, it wasn’t obvious to me,” Eirik protested quietly, as he continued to wonder how his feelings could have been obvious to anyone else when they had only just become clear to him in the thirty seconds between sleep and waking in Jens’ arms.   
  
“I know,” Aron said softly, humor finally slipping from his voice, “But I am guessing that wasn’t the reason you called. Love confessions are meant for lovers, not for long-suffering younger brothers.”   
  
Eirik sighed and tried to think of how to begin to untie the knot of guilt and anxiety weighing down the ridiculous bubbling happiness he felt each time he thought of Jens sprawled on the bed, searching for his warmth.   
  
“You know that you will always have a home with me,” Eirik offered simply, struggling to convey sentiments that were not part of his or his brother’s better nature. “I will always be there for you.”   
  
Once more, Eirik was thrown by the unexpected sound of Aron’s soft, dry laughter passing through the receiver across that distance that kept him from seeing the expression of fond derision he imagined would now grace his sibling’s face. There was something warm in the echo of Aron’s laugh that loosened the last bonds of tension. Eirik closed his eyes and waited to hear what wisdom masquerading as scorn Aron wished to impart.   
  
“Eirik,” Aron started gently as the last treble of laughter faded, “As you are very fond of reminding me, you’ve done me the greatest kindness in the world by giving me the freedom to be where I want, doing what I want, and with whom I want.” Eirik listened to the hitch in his little brother’s voice and remembered a fourteen year old boy who had once told him that no matter where Eirik was, that was his home. Aron cleared his throat. “So, let me do you the same great kindness and give you my permission, my conscience-cleansing go ahead to be where you want, do what you want to do, and be with you whom you want to be with. Most of all, please just go be happy already.”   
  
Eirik smiled and blinked rapidly in the darkness, denying the wetness that threatened at the corners of his eyes, gathering all his wits about him as he murmured, “How very generous of you, little Brother.”   
  
“I’m sick of putting up with you. It is a full time job dealing with your drama.” Aron joked thickly while the sweetness of the moment settled into memory, sentiment left for another day and another time. “So, really I’m just being selfish.”   
  
“Well, it would be churlish of me to waste your selfish generosity,” Eirik replied, knowing that he could not quite keep the rush of affection from his voice, “And as you say, perhaps I should be otherwise occupied.”   
  
“If I promise to always be here for you, too, will you stop telling me such disgusting and unnecessary things?” Aron asked tartly.   
  
Eirik smirked and felt as though he had regained half his footing on a world so recently tilted on its axis, circling his fingers around the door knob as he prepared to leave his hiding place and return to the bed being kept warm by an idiot who waited for him. “Where would be the fun in that?”   
  
“You have a twisted sense of fun, Brother.”   
  
“Thank you,” Eirik intoned seriously, accepting the taunts and promises and the gift of Aron’s permission, knowing that Aron would choose to believe he meant only to deflect this last, paltry insult.   
  
“You’re welcome,” Aron said blithely, “Oh, and do be sure to tell Idiot Jens what you told me. You would be just pathetic enough to forget to tell the one person who needs to hear it that you are madly, desperately, crazy in love with him.”   
  
Eirik flushed and tried to hiss a protest that he was at best somewhat infatuated and perhaps a little enamored only to be confronted by the ringing of the dial-tone that signaled his brother’s abandonment, leaving him alone in the early morning glow with Jens and the sound of his muffled breathing.   
  
Quietly, Eirik dropped his phone on the desk and slumped in the chair draped with Jens’ tuxedo, leaning forward on his knees so as not to wrinkle the clothes that would cover the bare skin that whispered to him from the bed. Jens had turned onto his stomach, hand still splayed where Eirik had slept curled in Jens’ warmth, and the sheets had slipped below the ridge of his shoulder blades and down the slope of his back. Eirik watched the soft rise and fall of the chest pressed against the mattress and waited in silence until his brother’s words had settled in his thoughts, until the burn of a confession he had not intended turned lingering anxiety into desire.   
  
It was obscene and likely very stupid to want someone like this, Eirik thought as he pushed his hand beneath the band of his underwear and curled fingers over his half-hard cock. It bothered him to prove any of Jens’ predictions true, but months ago, Jens had trapped him against his front door and promised him that it would all seem new and so terribly irresistible when they woke tangled up with the chance to learn each other all over again.   
  
Besides, Jens was going back to Greece tomorrow and Jens was so rarely quiet, so rarely still and there were so few hours before everything had to turn to tuxedos and irritating chaos.   
  
Eirik stood from the chair and left his briefs on the floor to return to the bed entirely bare, knowing all too well that beneath the sheets Jens wore nothing but the lopped smile of dreams. He ran two fingers over the covers that kept feet and calves and thighs hidden from his touch as he crawled onto the bed, so gently, knees dipping into the mattress as he straddled Jens’ back. He splayed his palm between shoulder blades to feel the changing rhythm of breathing as Jens’ drifted slowly awake.   
  
Eirik bent his head to brush a kiss to Jens’ temple, hair catching on his lips while he watched Jens’ eyes flutter open and closed and then open again, reality struggling for a foothold in the sea of sleep yet to recede. Eirik liked Jens like this, pliant and soft and too obviously delighted to be woken by his touch. Eirik hummed lowly, tracing little circles on the warmth of Jens’ back as he kissed his cheek and the still heavy corner of his eye, wanting nothing more than this silent and sweet desire.   
  
“Shhh,” Eirik whispered, cutting off the parting of Jens’ lips around words to smile sleepily instead, “Shh.”   
  
Eirik dipped his head to the pillow to kiss Jens’ quiet and happily acquiescent mouth, a soft press of lips to lips that lingered only for a moment before it drifted up the prickle of skin that needed to be shaved and down the slope of a neck littered with the marks of a night well spent. He felt the ripple of Jens’ muscles beneath his thighs as Jens stretched and sighed with apparent pleasure, settling into Eirik’s unplanned, unnecessary and irresistible wake-up call.   
  
Wanting to feel that ripple and pull, Eirik shifted lower, letting his hands slide up and down the long and toned plane of Jens’ back, kneading softly with knowing fingers that sought out each spot that would earn him the rumble of a muffled moan and the shiver of skin that answered to him alone. He tasted soap and the warmth of sleep on the tongue that traced the letters of his name down Jens’ spine and he thought that he might be spoiled by such things, that he would wake alone in Amsterdam and be annoyed that he could not have the toast and salt of Jens’ body for breakfast.   
  
He wondered when it was he had lost all control of his sensibilities, when he had become as foolish and irrepressible as the man who shifted beneath him, doubtless seeking the pleasure of friction against the cotton sheets. His own cock was nestled atop the curve of Jens’ ass, sliding over the covers as he rolled his hips and continued to chase the sound of sighs with hands and lips down, down, down Jens’ back.   
  
And when he reached the top of the sheet that dared to get in the way of his conqueror’s mouth, to keep him from the territory that for this morning belonged entirely to him, Eirik sat on his heels and ripped the offending cover away, laughing lightly when Jens moaned shamelessly and spread his legs, offering a wanton view of the curve of his bottom and the cock trapped between body and bed. Eirik licked his lips and gave into the wild and wicked impulse that clouded all other thought, wanting something from Jens he’d never been given before, wanting to discover new secrets from this man who had been his not-a-lover so many times before.   
  
Eirik had not thought it could be like this, that he could feel both the exhilaration of lust and the terrifying rush of affection and yearning and still have the desire to stay, to splay his hands over the hot skin of Jens’ ass and press his lips to the lowest dip of his back instead of running towards the safety and surety of solitude. Realizing that there was something he wanted more than control, more than practicality was as heady and thrilling as Jens’ graveled sigh of surprise and arousal when he parted Jens with his hands and let his tongue run hot and slick down the slope of his ass.   
  
He closed his eyes and breathed out over the skin he had wet, urging Jens to raise his hips so he stroke his cock and he continued to run his lips over him, sliding his tongue lower to tease at the heat of his thighs and his heavy arousal. Jens moaned and pushed against him, greedy for more of his touch, asking without speaking for Eirik to taste him once more, to take every part of him. Generous and greedy, Eirik gave and took, listening to Jens’ gasp and sighs while he stroked his cock and slicked his skin with the hot, wet, press of his mouth and the flick of his tongue.   
  
And when Jens was thrusting into the circle of his fist and Eirik looked up to see the damage he had wrought in a flushed face and hazy eyes that gazed at him over shaking shoulders, demanding more, he licked his swollen lips and fumbled desperately in the mess of covers for the lubricant that had been abandoned there the night before. He held Jens’ stare as he struggled to get the cap off with fingers that did not want to waste time and effort with such things when there were hips to grasp and skin to touch.   
  
But as with all that threatened to keep him from what he wanted on this morning he wanted everything without reservation, Eirik succeeded in slicking his fingers and his palm, stroking his cock. He watched Jens watching him with such an expression of desire and adoration he wished for the first time that Bonnefoy had been there with his camera to capture such wonderful idiocy.   
  
He wondered Jens saw, what face he wore when he returned to the heat between the spread of Jens’ thighs and slid his cock over the curve of his ass and bent his head to gently kiss the ripple of his back.   
  
And as he pushed slowly into the tightness of Jens’ body, sighing with each inch that Jens gave until he was pressed flush against the tremble of Jens’ legs, Eirik thought that there was a very good chance that he was terribly obvious.   
  
He gave up the struggle for plausible deniability with the first arch and roll of Jens’ hips between the span of his hands, urging him to move. The clench of Jens’ body was tight and hot and too much to handle after a long slow tease in the early hours of the morning and Eirik knew there was little need to hold back. He watched his cock move in and out of Jens’ ass and watched the way Jens licked his lips and fisted his hands in the sheets each time Eirik pushed inside. He felt the tremors in their legs and listened to the sound of his rasping breaths and dipped his head to taste pleasure on his tongue.   
  
With an urgency that belied the slow, steady pace of his thrusts, Eirik took Jens’ cock in hand, reaching around his body to brush his thumb over the tip and stroke three fingers down the length of the shaft. He quickened his strokes in time with the fluttering of Jens’ eyelashes and the jerking arch of his back, letting Jens fuck his palm while Eirik fucked him. He doubled over to kiss what skin he could reach, murmuring foolish nonsense as Jens tightened around him and came over his fingers, knees and elbows giving way to pleasure.   
  
Eirik let them fall to the mattress, desperate to be pressed flush against the shiver of Jens’ body as he draped over Jens’ back and pried fingers loose from the sheets to take Jens’ hand. He parted his lips over Jens’ throat and continued to push inside, sucking on a pulse that still fluttered for him while he rolled his hips and felt the coiling of desire, unable to do more than let Jens rock against him in answer to his shallow, wild thrusts.   
  
And just as he had done since the first moment he saw Jens waiting for him in the hotel lobby, Eirik sighed and let go of his need to hold back any longer, too far gone to deny to this blinding lust and ridiculous affection as he clung to Jens’ hand and came. He scattered kisses over Jens’ throat until he could breathe again, until he could remember anything other the sound of his voice moaning Jens’ name.   
  
Eirik thought he might very well be the grandest fool of all.   
  
“Well, good morning,” Jens murmured happily, opening his eyes and smiling lazily as Eirik remained slumped across his back with face pressed into the warm, slick hollow between shoulder and neck.   
  
Eirik looked into too bright blue eyes and felt the steady thrum of Jens’ heartbeat beneath his lips. He tightened his fingers around the hand that still held his, closed his eyes and broke his silence.   
  
“Good morning. I love you.”


End file.
